On flights of fancy, I may leave on a pome,
But this house and this property is my home.

Raised in a decade long forgotten,
A stud here or beam there is bound to be rotten.

On the roof the shingles are curled and sliding,
And under the eaves, there’s a bulge in the siding.

A foundation shift, I’m told, is to blame
That no upstairs door quite fits its frame.

The electrical system and plumbing are old;
The grand kids say they can smell the mold.

The drywall, grout, and caulk are crumbling,
A sump thing in the sump is rumbling,

And a creature with wings, I thought was nomadic,
Has made a permanent nest in the attic.

At night I can hear the termites gnawing.
Oh, and look! Over there! A black thing crawling!

The furnace repairs are long overdue,
And I’m praying it lasts the winter through.

As appliances fail me, one by one,
The equity left is next to none.

When property values and upkeep are down,
And the old, gray dog who loved you is gone,

You’re alone!   Not a soul knows your
Assurance has lapsed and you’re facing foreclosure.

But there’s one good chair left, and pomes are a way
Of sweeping the cobwebs and filling the day.

So it’s fine. All old houses get gout,
And sooner or later the lights will go out.

But God will provide, so where is the harm?
The shower still works and the bed is still warm.

There was table talk once and times of good cheer,
And love and laughter and dreams lived here.

It was mine, my home!... wherever I went,
And I, the sole owner... and soul occupant.