Your house is like a suit of clothes
worn loosely in cozy weather, when moping clouds
shed their rains against the damaged
shingles on the roof.

Are you happy?  Are you naked
outside the safety of steel siding in "cedar" hues
that look like wood until you tap on them.

Metal reverberates.
Cling, clang!

Changing clothes
you hang your suit,
shut your triple garage.

Wishing for a smaller
house, being easier
to launder, won’t help. Too
late for that. It would be more
like donning sweats, a cabin
at the lake the logs obvious.

You built this granite spacious
place, too weighty for one.

What hides in your closets?

Klein shorts under your blue used
car–salesman suit.

The lemon striped tie has no clip. When
you’re not guarding it, it carves figure 8's
in the air, flopping unruly to one side
and then the other.

Are you happy? Only
the Simple are always happy.

You wear your house like a suit,
a simple sky blue suit.