Shopping for Home

Go to the hardware store, the old-time one
near the county line, the one with the dusty
paint-splattered floors, oak planks that creak  
 
as you stroll up and down the aisles, looking 
at welcome mats and no-soliciting signs, 
all the shiny hammers and buckets of nails, 
 
screwdrivers lined up by size. Walk past 
the sandpaper and twine, silver mailboxes, 
birdfeeders, rakes, shovels, and trowels. 
 
Smile when the nice man asks if you need 
help finding something. Grab some
triple A batteries and a string of fairy lights 
 
to wrap around the porch, some sunflower 
shelf paper, so yellow and happy, ten rolls, 
enough for every drawer in the new house—
 
third move in two years because the sad 
fits nowhere you live. Browse the seed packets, 
and daydream about peonies, sweet peas, 
 
and daisies. Leave with a coil of green hose, 
a nozzle for spraying a fine mist across the soil 
when you stand at dusk watering your garden.

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