My husband's parents lived at 57 Farmington Avenue in New London where their grandchildren, the three cousins in today's poem, spent most of their summers and many an after-school winter day. The oldest cousin is my niece Arlene and she's asked for a poem about this house. For her, for all of them, it has a special magic. The poem's titled Dream House and here's the opening. You can find the rest, of course, at Tupelo. 

The oldest cousin dreams

Nanna’s house in the summer,

the iron bench like twisted lace,

the morning glory trellis. Nanna

in the garden, Nonno reading

on the patio, all the furniture

layered with paint Nanna mixed

from the latex leftovers—beige-rose,

blueberry-cream—because

she loves to keep things safe, 

The truth is Arlene darn near wrote the poem herself, sending me a wonderful paragraph full of her memories. I used a great many of them, but I couldn't help adding a few of my own. I remember watching my mother-in-law figuring time after time how to keep three active children occupied and happy, and it turns out I'd stored away a lot of images and smells and sounds. Another poem that was fun to write. Thanks, Arlene

So, I know you saw it coming, here's the pitch. I NEED a prompt. Three. And counting. Then, what am I going to do?  Go here. Help me out.