historic house is yours for free.
So says NPR,
if you’re willing to lift it from the earth,
and drag it to its final resting spot
on your plot.
One-thousand square feet
once sprung to life from dog-eared catalogue pages,
road rails to her current rural residence,
can be displaced to become your space.
Will you answer the S.O.S.
Save our Sears and Roebuck?
Do you need her 1920’s simplicity,
scents of fire burning from her coal fireplace
like cheap, heavy cigars,
the lavender bath-salted water cradling you
in the porcelain claw foot tub?
She’s housed generations of frugal families,
nestled next to many kit homes like her,
outlived her original owners,
and will gracefully wear
so far from where she began.
She can save you from consumer life,
baptize you in her whitewashed cupboards
filled with dated preserves stored in Mason jars.
Annotate her advertising in Sears’ Book of Modern Homes,
pencil in your name next to “honor-built,”
rewrite antiquity on your acre.
Hang your dreams to dry on wired clothing hooks
pressed into papered walls.
Upcycle a life,
catalogued and ordered through the internet,
by skimming through NPR’s Facebook statuses.
Who’s lumber-stamped modern now?