With your five-car driveway and great
stone retaining wall,
You seem to sprout expansions, like
venal little cancers.
You seem to be an attempted
upper-middle-class edifice.
You have no eyes for your surroundings.
You do not know where you are.
Here, edifices are the sole province of
nature, unmatched
By your substandard materials or your
yearly coat of paint.
You are the sad little king of a
past-its-prime hill.
Someday, one hill up, they'll build a bigger McMansion than you.
Until then, enjoy the view.
I was considering printing this poem off and slipping it in the mailboxes of the four or five houses that inspired it, but that's technically illegal, and since it's my writing, it could get traced back to me, and then it would raise flags on my background check for the teaching program...
ReplyDeleteAnyway, it's obviously relevant to the area I live.