Kiss my social bungalow, Beauty.
Don't tempt me with cakey answers;
you aren't a maverick or Vancouverique
here to spout your special theories of
relativity - my family-land, my clothes,
how I hang on the banister mulling over
a pot of tea.
Even the dolls on the window ledge
are sleepy when hearing about your slippers of elsewhere.
It's Grace's front lawn that's awaiting you to
plant its tulips, its reflective roses.
It's Grace's kitchen where you need to
make a roast of lamb in the oven.
Forget the candlelight, Beauty.
You are no more glamorous than a litter of puppies
who have grown and gone their separate ways as
fattened full grown dogs.
It's time once more to stop playing
to chop fake wood, pick it from the store I mean,
for the fake chimney your aunt from out east said we had to have.
But I digress, we got this yard for a reason. It's time to mind,
time to sow a little more lettuce.
What is the sum of 7 and 8:
It's your turn! Move into the poem. Renovate it. Knock down its walls. Put your spin on it. Make it your own.