My favorite house on Kensington, 

white wood with black shutters.

A picket fence but not suburban,

that timeless style that never stutters.

Outside is the street’s source of sweet scent,

a magnolia tree three times the house’s size. 

Its swelling branches like a tent,

I want to get married under it, leaves falling as hymns rise.

And Mrs. Mayhew likes me.

From her garden that she tends 

she asks her grandson about me,

says she loves how much we’re friends. 

A Frank Sinatra song we could be one day,

the neighborhood love story, too bad he’s gay.