Open House
       

The realtor is whistling through the spacious rooms.

Everything's so new—floors, carpet, paint—as if just created.

There are cookies on the Plexiglas tray. —Coffee and tea.

There are flowers on the mantle. She wants us to feel at home.

A puzzle of a forest, unassembled, lies on an end table.

We pass a small box to each other. The last one

sets it down. Inside is a model of this house. We

all peer down a long way to see. Now a child lifts

the roof off. Inside are figures just like us. Our breaths

make clouds. This is the way our lives start. This is the way they go.

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Copyright © 2017 Mark Irwin All rights reserved
from A Passion According to Green
New Issues Poetry & Prose
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission