My Realtor

When I tell her the dining room seems a little small,
She opens the double doors to the garden
And motions me out with a gesture suggesting
That if the talk at dinner grows so expansive
The house can't hold it, I can lead it outside.
No strolling, I say, in a garden so small,
But her glance implies no garden is big enough
If it has to compensate for a narrow outlook.
In a garden no wider than this one, a seeker
Could reach enlightenment on the largest questions.
Does she expect me to meditate to the noise of dogs,
Lawnmowers, and radios not softened by distance?
No true philosophy, her shrug implies,
Begins with a single self brooding alone,
With the world dismissed as mere distraction.
"It's cozy," I say, to break the silence,
"But I'd like to see other properties before deciding."
So she knows I'd be happier with a Realtor
Who assured me a house on a grander scale
Would be the basis of a grander destiny.
Not for me a lesson on modesty,
A house to remind me my many projects
Are only wishes, each meant sincerely
As a balloonist means sincerely to cross the ocean
Till a puff of wind has the final say.

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