Yes, we bought an old seaside house in Maine,
Near Lubec, most eastern part of foreshore,
Next to Canadian border, two plus hours out
Of Bangor, edifice to another era stood vacant,
Once a house, then hotel, house again, perhaps
Order was reversed, one corer of downstairs
Was restored, made livable, bright-windowed
Country kitchen, reaching, inviting me.

Between kitchen and living room, payphone
Stood wall-silent, nothing in change return.
Intriguing was not modern living space, but
Creaking upstairs, thread-bare carpets on
Creaking board floors, doors and windows
Not opened or closed, unhinged, repaired,
Or conversely, wind-slamming closed on
Dark-storming nights. 

Yet, I had acquired seven brass beds, twin
And double size, musty mattresses, ancient
Enameled bathtubs, leaking or non-existent
Plumbing, radiator heating, and alas, my
Bedroom calling to me, waves breaking on
Rocky Maine shores, visceral joining of
Pine paneling and heart, overlooking
Sunny stretches of lobster fishing bays.

Like “Ghost and Mrs. Muir,” this was not
“Gull Cottage,” but raggedy osprey nest,
With needy fledgling “bird-rooms” each
Requiring money in lieu of bits of fish to
Revive, to breathe sea air again. Somehow,
I understood-agreed, I could not leave. This
Rambling house had become hearth, home.
I stated aloud, “It’s now Sea Breeze B&B.”
First purchase was coffee machine.

From early morning dream to free-verse poem, welling words, images
of this far-distant part of Maine, r
ambling seaside house calls to me
in predawn hours, s
eeking new life as Sea Breeze Bread & Breakfast.
What will the cat think? 

Written whilst listening to “Homburg” by Procol Harum:
“For the floor she found descended, and the ceiling was too tall.” 

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