THIS OLD HOUSE AT SUNSET
is a picture postcard from another era.
Its lazy shady promenades
recessed in gingerbread
no right angle ever knew.
A craggy lion’s head
tarnished brass ring clutched
between gritted teeth,
provides that subtle nod to propriety -
this valueless world, unaccustomed
to its decadent grace.
I pause, to toddle the lazy violet-eyed veranda
breathing from restorative juices
limpid bowers of honeysuckle rose
clinging an instant welcome
or sad parting song to parlor game youth -
when Vyuga horns chirped noisily
and the polite clatter of hooves
put to tap on cobblestone
pronounced the arrival of our daily milk.
Does anyone else yearn for this age?
Its haughty aristocracy,
building kitty-corner beacons
dipped in civic pride,
and the dirty overalls and paintbrush
that plied delicate colors
echoed in dainty gaslight.
“How do, Mrs. Cartwright…”
and “How well your daughter looks today”
the bloom of Black-eyed Susan framing
her amber-kissed angelic smile
imbedded in twenty-four karat locks
and the convivial ‘come hither’
for this young man
diligent and beaming from my portico.