By Susan Blackwell Ramsey

That house on the corner is for sale
again. Last week it flaunted SOLD

over the gap-toothed retaining wall,
the sparse weeds in the barren beds,

the desiccated hedge. And now
the sign is gone. So are the weeds.

The fallen bricks are balanced back
into the wall, and near the steps

someone has mulched the beds halfway,
as far as a single bag goes.

I laugh, it feels so personal.
I recognize the scramble up

that gravel bank, repair instead
of maintenance—my housekeeping,

my teeth, my spine, my charity,
all after-patched, too little too late.

My mental double-entry weighs
regret against effort and expense,

while sloth and wishful thinking keep
both thumbs on the scale. I have two friends

who silently agreed to let
their house disintegrate, then sold

“As Is” and walked away content.
Bad for a body or realtor, still

I nod companionably at that mulch.
Maybe too little will be enough.

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Susan Blackwell Ramsey’s work has appeared, among other places, in The Southern Review, Poetry Northwest, 32 Poems, and Best American Poetry. Her book, A Mind Like This, won the Raz-Shumaker Prize from Prairie Schooner, and she has enjoyed residencies at The Vermont Studio Center and MacDowell. She lives in Kalamazoo, Michingam, which does exist.