The roof of my house is made of brick,
and you would think because it is a form of
stone and not some chopped up panels of oak
it wouldn't burn, but oh it has, many times,
which for anyone is hard to believe. In fact,
my house has been set to fire almost every day,
and allow me to be of surprise once more when
I say I am the victim but also the suspect.
You see, countless memories have dwelt in this
forsaken place; aunts, uncles, parents, and nephews
have left their marks, and frankly I grew angry,
found motive, and learned to hate the passersby
and any crevices in the basement wall they dared
point at. The holes- damn them and the mice
coming through, gnawing at the furniture
as if a banquet was being served, biting
more holes until the leather couch becomes
a Dalmatian coat of hollow polka dots.
Packed to their soft, ruffian fur sleeves are the clouds
of the most sickly staining dust, attracting
foul insects alike, and as may not be imaginable
I am then noticeably, and I do emphasize,
overwhelmed.
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