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I keep dreaming of houses. Last night
I walked through a bungalow with a realtor
who read aloud from a book of poems
called Real Estate. The utterly white paint
of the walls stood ready to accept anything
I can imagine. A pony grazed on the green
shag carpet in the living room. Eat it all,
I said, I don't like the color. Two front doors
side-by-side made of soft material
throbbed like the chambers of a heart.

When I tell my husband about the dream,
he asks if the house is smaller
than where we live now and located
in a warmer climate.

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Copyright © 2017 Margaret Hasse All rights reserved
from Between Us
Nodin Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission