Gray House (a poem)

Gray House 

It was really blue

not gray

but that didn’t matter

it felt lacking 

washed out

pieced together at the wrong angles 

the scribbled drawing of a child 

who’d never known a home 

only a house 

uneven levels 

rooms that made sense until they didn’t 

unfaithful to any one era 

trying to be modern, but laced with the kinds of antiques 

that no one buys 

(not even at a yard sale) 

ancient carpet hiding graceless plywood 

disappointment stacked in boxes against neglected walls 

mismatched expectations around the table 

windows streaked with someone else’s tears 

Why did I expect the homeowner 

to be any different?