skeeter hollow.

16.3 acres for sale,
Even closer to the city.
What could be wrong with it?
Wooded, in the moraine.
A gentle green slope.

That sign
Is beginning to look a little worn.
Bright yellow with red screaming,
16.3.

I’ll tell you what’s wrong with it,
Husband laughs between gulps of coffee.
It’s a little place I like to call,
Skeeter Hollow.

I imagine the lineage of all those
pesky skeeters,
Slapped in the night
Traced back to there.
A king and queen on their
bloody thrones.
The king raising his sceptre
In victory
As another human,
Bound in mortgage
Is hauled before him.

I shudder and check
The other side of the road
for lease signs.

 

keeping myself honest with Write Alm prompts.

unmasked.

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