We rented the house just north of Blissfield,
the alley kitchen made for many traffic jams,
though the only horns that would blare
trumpeted the readiness of rosemary rye.
The guest bedroom sweetened with sawdust,
your cedar stain waging an aromatic war
against my window silled peppermint.
She vegetated in her unglazed teapot,
your overly voweled name scrawled
into its primitive underside.
We’d read somewhere that speaking
in a subpar British accent carted persuasion.
The hypothesis was tested at the Rusted Roost
vintage and salvage shoppe uptown.
We bartered with the proprietor
for the functioning Oliver Typewriter, and won.
It would later find avail in premature nuptial vows
and the label making of the spice jar arena.
An act that torched a similar permanence as to when
we bought the house just north of Blissfield.
Grace Mooney Anderson