Sunday afternoon

Turn the corner. A flurry of crunchy leaves,


And head down Perfect Lane.

Arm in arm, closed-toed shoes,

Coats buttoned up tight.

My left hand sparkles, a glittering promise

Of this new beginning.

I like fancy, he likes simple,

A cozy little house is best.

Spiral staircase, delicate woodwork,

Are too outdated for us.

This one has artsy windows and artsy doors,

Cold stones and wooden floors.

I shake my head and we press on,

Me pulling him along.

Crunch leaves again and climb,

Upward to fancy dream homes.

I squeeze his hand tight and he pulls me close,

Our wish remains the same.

The wind winds softly around my ankles,

And he holds me even closer, to his heart.

We stop in front of a big two story,

And turn to face its simplicity.

White paint chips from upstairs to basement,

Windows as plain as day.

A rounded piece of house juts out in front,

An accent of our fairytale.

The smooth, rounded shingles are old,

The house is likely older.

Tilted steps lead to an entryway

Scattered leaves cover the worn wood.

The front porch sits, the way he’d like to read his morning paper.

A small garden overgrown with weeds, peeks out to greet me.

A tall-branched tree sits out front,

Gnarled roots poke up from the ground,

A symbol of imperfection on this Perfect Lane.

We look up and down the street to find,

Clean-cut perfect lawns.

This one needs some work and love,

Something we could both work on.

I look at him, and he smiles my way,

a silent accord between us.

The For Sale sign in front creaks and waves to us,

The numbers are worn and discolored,

Reflecting months of ignorance.

He snatches it up and tucks it under his arm, smiling excitedly.

Arm in arm, crunch leaves again, and return to Main Street.

Look back on Perfect Lane and hope to see it again soon.