This poem has a door, a locked door, and curtains drawn against the day, but at night the lights come on, one in each room, and the neighbors swear they hear music and the sound of dancing. These days the neighbors will swear to anything, but that is not why the house is locked up and no one goes in or out all day long; that is because this is a poem first and a house only at night when everyone should be asleep. The milkman tries to stop at dawn, for he has three frosty white bottles to place by the back door, but his horse shakes his head back and forth, and so he passes on his way. The papers pile up on the front porch until the rain turns them into gray earth, and they run down the stairs and say nothing to anyone. Whoever made this house had no idea of beauty -- it's all gray -- and no idea of what a happy family needs on a day in spring when tulips shout from their brown beds in the yard. Back there the rows are thick with weeds, stickers, choke grass, the place has gone to soggy mulch, and the tools are hanging unused from their hooks in the tool room. Think of a marriage taking place at one in the afternoon on a Sunday in June in the stuffy front room. The dining table is set for twenty, and the tall glasses filled with red wine, the silver sparkling. But no one is going in or out, not even a priest in his long white skirt, or a boy in pressed shorts, or a plumber with a fat bag.