dream home...

The drab, I hurt me to hurt you attic, needs a new theme

wallpaper, I think, printed with cornflowers and poppies

a lamp to read by and an overstuffed comfy, cozy chair.

The cluttered, I am indifferent to the suffering of my food kitchen,
needs clean windows, with no curtains to soften the view

and a larder stocked with compassion by which we live, hand to mouth.

The narrow, I can be content while the rights of others slip away vestibule,

needs a full length mirror in which to contemplate the coldheartedness

of such an insular, self-serving an unconscionable point of view.

The stuffy, I can't forgive myself, until you forgive me completely parlor,

needs a sturdy fireplace in which to burn the fuel of self-forgiveness

and a musical instrument where we can compose a more joyful kind of song.

The formal, I can eat a sumptuous banquet while you starve dining-room

needs a much longer table, more dishes, utensils and plenty of sturdy chairs

at which to serve a meal of sensible proportions to a much larger family.

The stale, I am right and you are full of shit self-righteousness lounge,

needs a new coat of paint and scattered slippery bean-bag seating

making it hard to be taken seriously while judging others.

The messy, low self-esteem why the heck do I ever bother bedroom,

needs a good scrubbing and an airing with no change in décor

so that we may learn to truly love ourselves just the way we are.

The cramped, I am too scared to love and lose lavatory needs new tiling,

a water-wise toilet, a brand new sink and a shower with a railing

to keep us from slipping while abluting our most vulnerable selves.

The flooding, I am too old to change basement, needs a new drain system

a self-leveling concrete floor painted green with festive throw rugs

upon which to dance and sing out loud for no reason at all, at any time of day.

The chock-full, I will never be done punch-list tacked up on the cork-board,

next to the don't waste a moment seasonal calendar, guards the entry hall

as we with our pencils and erasers are held forever in their thrall...

lucy meskill