Conjure

Yesterday's prompt from Poetic Asides was:

"...write a work-related poem. Work doesn't have to be the main feature of the poem, but I want you to "work" it in somehow."

I thought about my old jobs and remembered one I had while first married. I worked for a prosperous realtor in our town writing ads for her house listings. I never actually saw the houses themselves, but she would give me snapshots to write from. Ah - my first (and only) writing job! :0)


Conjure

Maybe three, or maybe four,
lifetimes ago I had this job -
sitting in a dusty back room
of a sprawling old house
converted into offices. It
squatted under archaic
live oaks decorated with
Spanish moss like tinsel
on Christmas trees. A window
unit, my humming knight in
shining armor, fought the
flame-breathing summer heat
for me. And most days the
dragon lay slain. Looking at
photographs of houses, I
would conjure them up with
words, invoking their presence
magically onto paper: remodeled,
revamped, redone, redecorated,
repainted, reduced. Re-everything.
And all for sale. Square footage,
half baths, patios and attic fans –
Nooks, decks, and hardwood
floors – Spacious, homey, cozy
and, of course, fantastic –
Three short lines of newsprint
to describe where people had,
were, or would
live and die.
We were
renting.