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.