interesting homes

May you live in interesting
homes, with shelves of books
around a hearth. A touch
unsafe, but homey though!
You're careful once the
fires start, and carefree
when you know they're out.

You're making up the bed
for sleep, and comfortable
looks between, and everything
such deep, familiar fond
and sharpish intimacies
can mean, or every place
they lead. You're making up
the bed like words, so soft
and even, tucked and neat
- then suddenly dove in
to splurge! Gave in
to urge. And out again

to linger in the wax
and wane of candlelight
and well-spent breath.

You're making up the bed
again.

You're making up the breakfast
nook, with doilies you could love
to death. You're making up
the chandelier - there isn't
one! Just made
it up! Imagination shines
so much more clear
in interesting homes. And may
you live in one. And may it be

your own. And perhaps mine?
At least, when I'm
around you make it so.
It's how it feels.
You make it up.

And even when I go, it feels
there are so many things
in there, to do - with oh!
Most anyone invited to,
I'd have to guess. But I
shall not.

Let's have a game. Let's have
a party - smallish, though. Not some
huge bash! Unless, let's have.
Let's have what's wanted
every day we want it back.

You're making up the favors,
now. In little bags of colored
cut, with handle strings and
tufts tucked in, diaphanous,
they cushion stuff.

You're making up the stage
for shows of sock puppets
and marionettes, in stage
magician capes and hats,
and ballet dress, and
slipperglass. The play goes
on with dialogue and tricks
all improvised: the moral

(at the end) is wise.

For we
have interested our selves
in living lives, and making up

a place for them. Right here.

it's funny how
we can.