Architectures of misery:
for one, the brickpiles of public housing;
for another, the triple decker units of aging neighborhoods
with sagging porches and facades of cheap vinyl over clapboard;
for another, the detached homes
and closecut lawns of the suburbs;
for another, the family farmhouse
and its windburned outbuildings huddled tight in the wide plains;
for another the perfect home on the perfect ridge
perfectly sited above the perfect ocean;
for another, the trailers and prefab shacks
on the reservation, clustered in the shadow of all the others.
If you can name a misery you can give it a home
and a palace and a yard and estate to hold it;
if you can name an ecstasy you can do the same,
and the ecstasy of one may be the misery of another, of course.
Admit it: the home in which you are happiest
is a negation of one where another lives best.