The Real Estate Man on Sunday Selling the House


[Woman 1, Willen de Kooning, 1952]

The Real Estate Man on Sunday Selling the House

I consist.

I can see others consisting

Like my dog

Flush on green stubs of grass

Flush on the sun drying my

red bleached hair,

I’m flush against my wine.

And his clop of business shoes

slap commercial claps

against the chiming Sunday bell song

My dog back arches to the sound

and sun as the plainness pleases him

and we both hope for disappearance.

My dog sinks down in absence

and knows only what is necessary

The Sunday sale of goods.

A fiddler fool in a gray suit

Did it feel good and strong to rip

the dandelion’s head? Was it a message you wanted to go

far and wide?

That you own the very


That could swallow you and

worm you

tomorrow . . . or tonight?

No. You’ve been stood up

On this hill that’s old.

Older than you by fifty generations

And the house? How did you come

to be speaking for it?

And if you’re really its lover


aren’t you groveling in the weeds

to free it of the beauteous yellow of

dandelion? Ethnic cleansing of the sort

you show yourself to believe in.

Well, here maybe come your customers.

Two sweat-shirted boys who carry big date books. Papers.

Important notes.

Phone numbers.

And so many contacts. The fine thrill

of networking. Brass plates,

heraldic lions, flank their eyes

And they conquer you in their very stride.


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