I Buried Her in the Exquisitely Crafted, Valuable Backyard

The appraiser walks around my house

Mmm Hmm. Mmm Hmm. Yes.

That’s nice there.

I explain how I cut my finger here

How long we spent there

Surely this baseboard is worth a penny or two?

She explains that appearance is nothing

Compared to four walls and the number of rooms

Not realizing she’s preaching to the choir

Not realizing I came to that conclusion long before she did

Which is why I’m fixing up a house to write anyway

And anyway, she doesn’t understand the poetry of a house

She gets a 450 dollar commission.

My commission for fixing this house is already spent on writing

She walks out in the convenient snow

That covered the yard debris

And takes measurements

After I offer her the blueprints

She’s not fooled by my bullshit

It’s funny, because that’s the writer’s game

Not to be fooled by bullshit

To chronicle the truth

And here’s this person who can

She even looks good in leather

But she’s twisting it to financial ends

Kind of like I am fixing houses

Both are despicable and of necessity

I feel a sympathy for her

Even while wanting to choke the life out of her

For not believing the bullshit

And you’re next