Thursday, August 20, 2009

The Seller's Lament (08-20-09)

A poem by Pascale Steig

My house on Woodward
is lovely and for sale now.
Great neighbors. Much space.

Three bedrooms, two baths,
The best kitchen in the world:
A gourmet’s retreat.

Time passes, so slow.
The house sits immutable,
while my hair turns gray.

Fickle buyers, all.
Only complaints: too spacious;
the tree...too much shade.

Complaints, excuses:
No lawn, no fence, tree too tall,
house and rooms too big.

What about agents?
Large or small, from the same mold:
"Make it bargain cheap!"

"Price low! Give it up!"
But one thing is sacred, one:
The commission, always high.

"Sell my house," I say
to all agents who come by.
No results. Nothing.

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