House for Sale

My home, my soul, open Sunday, 11-3:00, to strangers.

Lookie-loos pull up and start my palms sweating.


Fresh-cut flowers adorn the table where Saturday’s splashed

Grape juice used to be. These weekends in my orderly house, I

Suffer a personality disorder: I lint pick rugs, sweep up leaves

Before they ever hit the ground, stuff clutter into closets.

Then I sit and wait, surrounded by shiny waxed floors, sparkling

Windows, basins bare without crusted toothpaste.


They look through the stuffed closets,

My cupboards, even the freezer!

Nothing is sacred.

I couldn’t defend the crack in the wall –

I’ve lived with it for years.

“So clean. Spacious. Very well kept.

Two acres. Oh, look at the view of Mt. Rainier!

And the closet space! Timed sprinklers, you say?

Does this stay with the house?”

I talk in percentages and assumables. They

Leave with a phone number and a compliment.


I hope someone buys my museum soon –

I can’t stand to live here.



About dkbunnell

Author, blogger, speaker.
This entry was posted in Random and tagged , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

6 Responses to House for Sale

  1. John Draper says:

    The last two lines of the poem were an amazing way to end! Well done

  2. shawninmon says:

    Nicely done, Dianne. I always see it from the other perspective, but try to remember that my clients are feeling these things. Well written… as always.

  3. Sandi says:

    Love love love this. Needs a bigger audience. Thanks for the tear at my heart strings.

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