The House
The House
Sometimes, driving around the Midwest,
You’ll see, suddenly, a house floating up
Ahead, it’s going slower than you’re going,
Soon you’re passing it, it’s on your right,
Hogging the whole lane so that maybe
Your left tires catch the rumble strip
As you try to give the house room,
It’s on a flatbed of course, but seems to be
Flying alongside you on its own power,
Having torn itself up by the roots of pipes
And wires, it’s never a very big house,
How could it be, and it’s empty of course,
They’ve taken everything out of it,
You can see clear through the windows,
The most basic house you can imagine,
Living room, bedroom, bathroom, kitchen,
It’s slipping away now, it’s in your blind spot,
Now it’s in the rearview mirror, in time,
In hours or perhaps days, the house will come
To the square of earth prepared for it,
Like a body come to its grave, only
Upon being put to rest the house will
Come to life, fill with light and furniture,
Laughter and the smells of cooking,
And soon no one will be able to imagine
That it was ever anywhere but there.