Number 1, Self Street

If I were a house,
I'd want to be 'number one'.
The post man must come to me first,
and the garbage man too.

To the old man: "don't tread on my lawn, walk across the road instead".
And to the real estate agent,
"come and show passers by how elegant I am!".

The lushest garden please,
and the lowest energy bill.
Oh, and I must have the best neighbours,
Who will not bother me at an inconvenient time.

I'd want to be the biggest, brightest, neatest, cleanest,
Most expensive, most colourful, most modern,
Leaving all the other houses
To fade into a suburban blur
While I shine brightly for all to see,
Admire,
And write about in home magazines.

Then, perhaps, I would realise
That I'd missed seeing my neighbour's children grow.
And I had forgotten to say goodbye
To number 32 before he was knocked down.
All because I was too busy thinking about me.

Then I would see,
And understand
That we can all be a roof over somebody's head,
A warm welcome on a rainy day,
All of us can create happy afternoons
And good memories
If we could just begin to think about them,
Instead of ourselves.

I would see,
And accept,
That if I am happy being number 301,
I am the happiest home
Of all.