I recently took a writing class at the Richard Hugo House called "Writing the City" where we each produced a prose poem (journalism + poetry + prose). This is mine, on a house in my neighborhood. Perhaps light on the poetry, but I still like it. The class was great and I recommend both the specific one and the Richard Hugo House in general.
We leave the bus together, my
neighbor and I, making small talk. I’ve
gotten to know her over several similar mornings and she seems like a real nice
lady. We walk past some five houses and
I veer off down my driveway.
“Goodbye, I’ll see you tomorrow!” I
say.
“Oh you live here,” she replies. Her
voice is relieved. “I thought you lived there. “
She points three houses down to another duplex.
“No, no, I don’t live there!” I say with a too loud
laugh. Down the street another nice man with
a pair of shih tzus glances over before continuing his walk.
There
is a house that people are relived to find out that you don’t live in. At first it is dull but unremarkable, then it
wilts. Tan paint curls around chipped
bricks and multiple defunct satellite dishes screwed in around the eaves. There are too many things on the lawn – half-living
plants in cheap plastic cups, fake stone wells, numerous flags of indeterminate
symbolism. There are too many cars, most
of which seem unable to have arrived by the power of their own motors –
windowless, spray painted, covered with tarps. There are too many silences
until other neighbors lift the dirty veil and point out the mysteries.
She confides more about the
house. “Last year someone threw a
Molotov cocktail through the front window and it nearly burned down! It stayed that way for a long time before the
owner rebuilt it. If you call that
rebuilt. People come and go all the
time.”
In sea of rentals, such turnover must
indeed be high. I begin to notice,
too. I begin to see the groups who seem
disconnected. Five young punks pacing. Three sagging ladies smoking while
half-assedly weeding. An older man
tinkering. Now they are strange!
Similar relief repeatedly manifests. “You can drop me off at my house. It’s over here.” “Oh, good – at first I thought we were going
to say there!”
Why do you persist, house? This neighborhood is so nice! Why does no one sell you to get rich, or take
care of you like we deserve? Wouldn’t we
all be happy if you, too, were lovely?
When the time comes, I vote for the
improvements to the city. The choices seem inclusive - a socialist, parks
funding, infrastructure improvement, a livable minimum wage, marriage equality,
legalized weed. They mostly pass – see
how we are a progressive model? Everyone
is welcome to help tow the line, to draw us closer to an ideal, so please
remember to do your part, house.
Mornings, I walk my dog, going from
there towards here. An old dreadlocked white man in a tie-dye tee
shirt works in its lawn area from time to time.
“How are you doing?” he always asks.
“Good. And you?” I say.
He looks over both shoulders and
leans towards me with a grin that at first made me nervous but now that I know
him seems innocent. There is never
anyone around, but he does it anyway, laughing.
“Don’t tell anyone else, but I’m doing fantastic!”
