When I was forty-four years old
and you were forty-two,
we leased a crappy old condo
with hardly any view.

Two-up two-down the staid floor plan,
backyard a pocket square,
the carpet nearly old as us,
recliner a lawn chair.

Beyond our fence a field that met
a tiny patch of wood,
where coyotes sang laments at night
depending on their mood.

In spring the walks were paved with snakes
emerged to catch the sun.
Some of them were cottonmouths,
alarming everyone.

We lived there more than seven years
till we escaped for good –
us, the cats, our first two dogs –
I’d go back if I could.