The house sits proud on several acres in
Between a highway and a busy road.
The traffic noise is muted by some stands
Of native trees that weathered every load
Of snow each winter brought. The growth is thin
Beneath such boughs: Lush foliage demands
More light than healthy canopies allow.
But in the house itself a furnace roars,
Providing heat for he who lives inside
And soon enough will open paneled doors
For summer visitors. Folks wonder how
This lonesome owner can maintain his pride
While renting rooms to red-state southern tourists.
Elaborate moldings decorate the house
Along each line of its exterior,
Though it is rumored that his former spouse,
Whose breeding bore the stamp of ardent purists,
Once said, “His wood-work is inferior.”