Houses of the holy

‪Tired from rolling tires‬
‪uphill, but still…‬
‪Stunned by heart thump,‬
‪I’m sat flat, in the open garage,‬
‪on a summer chair,‬
‪watching chimney breaths‬
‪bellow and subside.‬
I’m thinking of all the real houses
fanned out in a matrix
on the slopes above me.
Their snowy rooves
with small ponds of molten black,
made by fickle bubbles of attic heat.
The houses, the rooves of snow,
and what floats above them.
And ah! What daydream!
One house is a piano house.
Children come and go there,
in clandestine cars,
to partake of the tuneful drug.
Their mother-teacher has piano teeth,
taut ham strings, and clockface glasses.
We met by accident.
She hit my car.
I keyed her piano.
We get along.