Here’s to
our first house in Laguna Hills,
the one with the brittle grass
that crackled under our soft feet;
the one with that shit-caked rabbit
caged in the foyer and the lime shag
woven so stiff with filth and the odor
of rotted meat that we dubbed it
“The bastard cousin of Astroturf;”
never forgetting putty knives plowing
through thick grease on kitchen walls;
the paralyzing horror of aluminum wiring
sizzling on outlets like firecracker fuses;
being indentured to possibilities
and potential for six months as we made
it all perfect for another young couple who
bought within an hour of walking through;
the house we made a few bucks on
then stood at the back slider and cried
until our heads ached from dehydration.
Cheers.
About the author
Steve Meador is one of Tampa’s top Realtors. He travels to hell and back on a daily basis, stealing little pieces of charcoal and…
Read the full bioIssue 03 · February 2009
Table of contents
- From the editors
- Poetry
- Postcard Prose
- Wanderlust by Janice D. Soderling
- As Seen On TV by S. Diane Wellman
- Anders’ Place by William Males
- Travel Notes
- Bigbi in Brazil by Julian Zabalbeascoa
More from The Journal
- Postcard Prose
By Kelly Hill
Trying to wrap my mind around living on a tropical island for thirteen years and never once seeing the ocean, I stumbled through my Indonesian vocabulary to say, It’s good. It’s big.
- Travel Notes
By Sandra Larson
A dinosaur dangles over my grandson at the Field Museum near a pink thumb that pops into the prom picture of my granddaughter dressed in strapless red leaving her house in Medina …
- Travel Notes
By Megan Hallinan
The bill in question is actually a 2,000 West African franc note, and it’s the equivalent of about four U.S. dollars. A helpful sum, really, but as I clutch the weathered crinkle in my sweaty palm, its value feels as dirty as the grime that is undoubtedly being transferred to my fingers.
- Poetry
to Egg and Berry brewery, to the pack / of Czechy words I made but didn’t work / in this pink town. I’d readily go back / to your best spots, the unfired gun, that perk //
- Poetry
By Jason Warren
And if the neap tides of my beauty / sadden him, I cannot help it: / I hang high, the waxy night light …
- Poetry
By Anastasia Vassos
Three thousand ancestors ask how I straddle / the sea, a foot on either shore. //
Read more Poetry or Postcard Prose