An old creaky house sits on unattended land,

Bright white but shadowed with washed out stains from the sun.

In front is the broken front door that sways from side to side like a

Politician during a debate. Back and forth, back and forth, the wind

Is alive, unlike the inside, of this old, small, house.

 

A walk onto the front porch, with an archaic accessory,

A Welcome to our Home mat made of bristle tan thread and

Cold, black, weathered rubber. Walk along the porch of broken

Spindles and splintered stairs, through that hurricane door, step

Gently inside to the outdated living room, that’s where I’ll be.

 

I’ll be there roasting another Camel sitting on my unemployed ass,

Wearing my worn robe, once bright red and without tears.

I’ll be there, underneath my blanket with sleeves, in my

Fruit of the Loom underwear, ashing every once in a while.

I’ll shuffle through losing lottery tickets longing for something else. 

 

I'll look around, I’ll want to change. Change this homeless look.

I’ll go to school with my average high school GPA,

Community college, “Yeah, that sounds good!” I’ll mumble,

I’ll nod and flick my butt into a muffin tin, “Last one I say”,

I will change today.

 

A commercial comes on, a long one featuring a deep soul-full

Black man talking about cut-rate insurance, doing his best James Earl Jones,

He sits in front of a gorgeous Victorian, with a family in front,

Mother, Father, 2.5 children and a golden retriever,

I can’t take my eyes off of his suit.