To be poor on rich land

 

To be poor on rich land

Evicted, this cold and final night
I tuck two children under blankets singing
    Knick knack paddy-whack,
    give the dog a bone.
Nonsense is sense to them.
They’ve known no other home.

We sit by the window watching the moon
drift among branches of Bishop pine.
Tomorrow we’ll haul away beds, bears, books.
Behind we’ll leave mildewy walls
crayon-colored with unicorns and rainbows.

Yesterday the bulldozer trundled down
from a flatbed trailer, now waits in the dark
to growl its motor, to flatten
this tiny cottage of scribbled rooms.
Spare the pine? We have no say.

A property priced in cash, not love.
Nests of mice in a field.
Comes the plow.

…..

First published in Slant. Thank you editor Michael Blanchard.
Photo by me.

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