Joe and Shelly’s house is on fire!
It is simply and surely ablaze!
The flames are incessantly higher.
Yet we see him sitting there, in a daze.
Mr. Hamilton runs straight in there,
We see him through the transparent window.
He runs promptly back out with burning hair,
Did you get our neighbors Shelly and Joe?
You will not believe it he tells us.
A mannequin was in Joe’s chair.
Firemen come without a fuss.
The smell of smoke permeates the air.
Tables, computers, cherished photos too
Quickly curled up and died that night
Made Joe’s almost ex a little blue,
What he might do next gave her a fright.
Revenge Joe never came back, that conniving scamp.
He had cancelled his home owners’ insurance a month ago.
Enjoyed the rest of his days playing a guitar in a hobo camp
Making his fearful wandering wife a pauper, that little ‘ho.
We forage for humanity,
hidden fruits quench our thirst.
Our hunting grounds, old overgrowth forest
just off the rail-line, down the hill to the
river, was a hobo camp long ago. Broken
pottery, tin plates and old bottles half
buried, speak of life's struggle. An attempt
at a foundation, now crumbling, imagines
hope for permanence, dissolved roots taken
by time.
The search, akin to walking through remnants
of a forgotten culture, feels like trespassing.
We sit and contemplate our passage as Wild
Turkeys scavenge nearby.
Peace is our prize.
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