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.