While Wondering How Much the Family House Will Fetch
By John Grey
Swimming pool, algae skin competing
with chlorine for greenness; the concrete,
once as hard and fast as rules, now cracked
here, there; rusty recliner, think I’ll recline
my rust; the sun at least, though ancient,
feels new; no gas grill, no family, just Esmeralda
baking up a tan; almost naked, hips pointed
away from having babies, bikinied breasts
oblivious to eyes and their deceitful hormones;
so this is the old house, to be divided up
four ways, two sons, two daughters,
I’d take the pool if I could gouge it out
of here; where we live, it would be found art;
suburban glory, do laps, just don’t drink the water;
top it up when it leaks; relax in it and
bronze the paleness out of you;
the past is dead; long live its status symbols.
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