The houses are tall people knock-kneed with
Of the dinner dates they long to go on.
They carry roses in their thick arms.
Wear red tiled hats. And
Stand very still
Hoping that the world will
Stop noticing them.
The only sort of notice they want is
The sort that comes handwritten,
And signed with an
The sort that come posted straight through the numbered grill
Of a hesitant and pounding heart.