Eleven years ago I bought this place.
I jettisoned some books and sundry stuff,
to fit my living in a smaller space,
and I was charmed and comfortable enough.
But time has passed; I’m older, and I’ve learned
what bugs me, what I’m missing since I moved.
Arranging rehab, listing goods I’ve yearned
to use, I’m set to have my home improved.

At first the cost alarmed me, but of late
I’m fantasizing bathtub, bigger bed,
new skylights, doors equipped with subtle screens,
a ceiling fan, remodeled deck and gate.
I’ll pay for what is crucial, but my head
keeps playing sequences of comfort scenes.