thirty year fixed

i can't live here

i tell her, whispering

so that the agent

can't hear.

the dirt back yard

with a rusting chain

link fence.

the winding steps.

the steep hill out front.

the white washed brick.

the plumbing,

the electrical, 

the crumbling chimney.

the arrangement

of rooms,

the puzzling floor plan.

doors that won't

unlock,

the vibrating appliances.

what's that smell,

the hum,

that rattle?

there's mice in the attic.

it's a thirty minute drive

to anywhere.

but she says, it has

good bones, my dear,

with a little love and

care 

we can make it our own.