Poem: Disgrace

December 30, 2010

My wife and I own another house on the other side of town,
The wrong side. We don’t live there, but paid cash because I’d
Grown weary of this nice side. My wife was willing to placate me
To keep the surface peace. Having resources, we simply held.
Naturally, given my inertia, after a matter of weeks I grew
Disenchanted with the new place’s lack of class and amenities
Like Einstein Bagels. So I forced my family to dislocate
Once more and return to the original. My wife and I don’t plot
Together, so the new (now old) one sits to rot.

I felt anxious. We still had holdings, but the market was declining. For long Periods we’d forget we owned a whole other house. Once in a blue Moon, I’d consider calling a realtor, but the luxury, I knew, was not Dealing with a crisis of abundance. We could always lower The ask on the old “new” place, put the profits in T-bills.
I did worry about the neighbors. Not about them exactly, but what they Might do to me for mocking their petit bourgeois life style.

Years passed. The hairy moss grew on the rusted gates, Dragging down their property values, which were never great To begin with. How the neighbors, who worked on hot-rods In the street – must despise the excess I represent! Their envy and spite was, of course, another exquisite dimension of luxury.

But now the housing market tanked – I had believed In the bubble – and we needed liquidity. The thing is that I Forgot to mention is I recently got canned. Once compliant then Complaining very tender co-eds on either side of me in bed at the old “New” house, where I held irregular office hours.

For what seemed like days I’d study Yellow Page after Yellow Page in search of the name of that realtor friend of mine. Was it Dude? Or Dune? Something with a D and maybe a U after it. I’d leave Messages, but what realtor worth his salt is ever in the office?
I admit I can’t recall the number of a reputable realtor. My wife doesn’t buy it.
The town is crawling with them. Then I think: Why not just hold an auction?

We arrive at the old new house to tidy for the sale.
Yes, it still exists, but there are complications.
For example, a major leak on the ground floor of a two story. I know squat about houses, but even I am thinking A leak on the ceiling of the ground floor means Problems on the roof, maybe the bathroom, and Major pipe damage. My best friend Dare, who is in Recovery, once told me that what happens is the roots Of ancient trees wrap like aliens around the buried pipes until The pipes return to being a part of nature. Steam shovels Devour the whole front yard. Cosmetically disruptive. One never feels he quite recovers intact.

I can’t tell if our plumbing situation is quite as serious as Dare’s, But it is quite likely the cost of repairing The old new house may be as substantial as what we’d net From auctioning. If I would for once be honest with myself, equity Amounted to another fantasy projection. As painful as it was, I’d Need to shift my aesthetic from the romance to the real. For starters, Let me acknowledge I was never Oprah. I wasn’t even Kid Rock.
In spite Of my efforts I remained saddled with the debt of two houses.
Both came With the wife I had, the kids I had. Neither moves in this market.

Poem: Disgrace

Daniel Morris

Arts and Culture