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.