The Houses Poem by jackilton peachum

THE HOUSES

Breathing softly, the houses we pass in chill winter dusk.
Cape-cod or cottage, ranch-style or double-wide, their voices raised in sibling rivalry—even the old white farmhouse set back way off the road, the one who speaks in such cracker.
Sometimes they sigh—and their presence invades the car.
Otherwise, they stand alone in the gloom until darkness—fond lover—wraps an arm about their shoulders and carries them inside.
Secure behind green lawn and mailbox, perhaps they'll come out and wave to us from the porch, divulging to strangers only their name and address.
A tv screen flickers on a glass, folks move about indoors—the evening meal is set—whispers, butt-ends of conversations.
Each window a yellow eye to delight the stars.