Blue-gray-panelled house
on a side street near Davis Square,
with a car wedged slantwise
in your cramped driveway,
with scraggly hedges
anarchic as the speech
of the irreversibly senile,
with a back stair of chipped paint
and windows unwashed
since the days of Joe McCarthy,
I can't help but wonder
if your walls hold treasures,
secrets and surprises,
allurements and enticements,
attractions of which your outside
so fabulously unpromising
gives not the slightest hint.