The little eggshell bungalow
sporting the racket-making swing,
pink and blue hydrangeas
big as conch shells
and a woman who knew
a child needed
– to be held — to be fed –
– to be sat in a corner –
– to be let out to dream
in the shade of a sweet-smelling
magnolia –
The little eggshell bungalow
that never moved
that never changed
the child knew
– that however long the wait,
would smell of sweet milk,
sugar, butter, Johnson’s wax,
and lavender sachet –
– big pillowed rockers
and wide, rust-chained swing –
– cuppa-sugar lemonade
to cool a child
got too much sun…
Never, ever, picture a giant
bulldozer laying flat
a little eggshell bungalow
to make room for
anonymous.
– woman a knowing ghost –
(c) Phyllis Jean Green, March, 2008