The faucets squeeze out a dribble of rust. The stained slip-covers fray like seaweed. Scruffy, haggled weeds confined to broken pots; shy, disfigured poppies; a barked rose succumbing to white-frocked aphids— the garden doesn't work. The heater doesn't work. Nothing works. Who lives in such a house? The pipes piss and moan, as if forced to pay taxes. If there are dream houses, are there undreamed houses full of the things we desire, or only those we deserve? Perhaps they are the homes of strange gods with some incomprehensible, whimsical way of looking at things. You said we waded through the mysteries to get here.
Copyright © 2011 by William Logan. Used with permission of the author.