Foreclosed

The Vernacular by tdomf_e0b94 — May 1, 2009 at 12:50 am | 1 comment | | Print

the home sits in the dusty grimy rim of Las Vegas Nevada,
it’s more than a trailer, but not by much
with a shabby roof and peeling blue paint on the shutters
a pickup truck going nowhere parked on the front lawn
the cracked driveway stands empty. the chainlink fence
guards the property from intrusion.

A plastic lawnchair occupies the stale dim living room.
a regrettable purchase from a long-ago trip to wal-mart.
straps of periwinkle and white cris-cross to form the
surprisingly comfortable seat he occupies. he sits
surrounded by the remnants of cheap beer and a cheaper marriage.

dirty dishes lay mangled in the sink. the television softly
hums the channel 8 news. he slouches, his belly—a recent
addition to a formerly toned carpenter’s physique—crests
over his belt. the scraggly grey beard trickles down his chin.
he glares at the crack in the window, questioning the sunlight.

a fly buzzes overhead, making its rounds through the house
seeing what it can bother. he reaches up and swats. missed.
he repeats his futile attempt and loses himself. hopping through
the room, barking and hollering at the damned fly, he lunges
and makes contact, only to clip the wing. the fly lazily falls
to the floor in a misshapen spiral. it continues twitching and
groaning on the floor. the chair beckons, and he returns.