It squats low, hunched down.
Lower, now that the rain has soaked through -
It once stood taller, when it had parts of itself to keep dry.
The outward inside seems without hope - a renovator's Herculean labor.
The ceiling sags, the hinges drag, the floorboards squeak and creak.
The exterior, too, toils, begging renovation or release.
The weeds flourish as the flowers wither, and the stepping stones sink and groan.
Oh, but the inside - the true inside,
Where lives not the people and the light,
But the dark, and the bugs,
And that which is ne'er seen nor felt -
The inside is strong.
The foundations gleam - shaken, battered, maybe even severed -
But never shattered.
The beams are strong, laquered, cared for.
The water, the air, the power, all that flows -
It is always there on requirement and demand.
The owners catch many-a-glare, many-a-stare,
From the others in the neighborhood.
"Why a bungalow? Why do you keep it? Why does your home not look like all the rest?" the neighbors cry.
"Why?" the owners sigh.
They say goodbye.
The question goes unanswered.
They do not know.
But perhaps, it is because
A bungalow is as good a home as any
With the right people,
And people inside.