The Christmas tree the trash man refuses
to pick up is really starting to piss me off!
As is one of my broken kitchen drawers.
Harold, my former casting director, is drunk
or at least tipsy … his blurry eyes size me
up for the contemptible role of Cinderella.
Harold and his Duchess Barbara may take up
residency in the house at the end of my
cul-de-sac, which just went up on the market.
I’ve trespassed undetected in the living area
to have a look-see at the gorgeous rock work,
the vaulted ceilings, beams, and lamp lights.
The dreamy landscaped backyard, Barbara can’t
even put into words for me as we talk on the porch.
Trash items are tucked beneath my crossed arms.
I act … as if it’s perfectly normal to conceal
detritus … to wear liberated short-shorts
and Converse shoes which help me hop away
In ten feet high bounds in the hopes of landing
in the eruption of one of their yard sprinklers …
But! Buoyed is not written in the script for me,
So I schlepp off two houses … down … down
to my own, only to find that the old dream house
owners strew their throw-aways all over my lawn.
Old soiled carpet, a broken-down baby
crib, and other psychological shrapnel
now block me from leaving my track home.
In the corner of my drive is that despicable
tree still standing a little too indecently
in the can. I look for a prince or a hacksaw.