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.
