Molly's House

In an embarrassed brick house
On a hopeful street in a treestrung suburb,
Most of Molly's furniture lolls between a rust-stuck front gate and a jagged open door.
A cedar picnic tables leans like an old man catching his breath against the 
Fortress flagstone wall.

A shell white pillar candle burns cheerful wax stains on the wood,
And a cowering hammock cradles a cookbook that smells of moldy 
Mandarins and cinnamon sugar.  
A canvass chair in fervent pepper green sits waiting. 

Molly's laugh flares around the corner
Flying carpet clouds of spice perfume,
Tents of draped chiffon,
A fuschia firecracker
Skids into the homestretch
And is home.  The chair is not disappointed.