Thirty Year Fixed

From above looking down,
say from a hot air balloon

sailing gracefully through
the April air, above the power

lines that sway from tower
to tower, you can see a parcel

of land, a square amongst
all the other squares,

a simple house stuck at an end,
a car or two on the black stripe

of driveway, perhaps a dog
in the yard, a blue narrow pool

set between the green. Clothes
on the line, suits hung

out to dry, and towels.
Tomato plants struggling

in dirt. A lifetime of saving,
making due in a tidy neat

package of land. It's there
for the next person, as it was

for you and the previous soul
who laid his or her head

upon a bed pushed against
the far wall so as to see

the window, to feel the morning
light, a breeze when it pushes

through the screen, past sheers
that hang just short of the sill.