A Toast to Making Nearly Nothing

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.


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…

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Issue 03 · February 2009

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