My house on Woodward
is lovely and for sale now.
Great neighbors. Much space.
Three bedrooms, two baths,
the best kitchen in the world.
An artist's retreat.
Time passes, so slow.
The house sits immutable,
while my hair turns gray.
Fickle buyers, all.
Only complaints: too spacious;
the tree...too much shade.
Complaints, excuses:
No lawn, no fence, tree too tall,
house and rooms too big.
What about agents?
Large or small, from the same mold:
"Make it bargain cheap!"
"Price low! Give it up!"
But one thing is sacred, one:
The commission, always high.
"Sell my house," I said
to all agents who came by.
No results. Nothing.
(By Pascale Steig)
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