House for Sale (as is)

We didn’t see it for what it was;

A warning from a whistle blower.

An alert about an inside job.

We told her the streets were safe and

the crime rate was low.

The insider warned us of impending doom, but

we looked away and laughed.

We made excuses.

We hosted holiday dinners and

busied ourselves with weekend chores and garden tools.

The streets were safe.

The crime rate was low.

We were looking at the wrong neighborhood.

The crime was already in progress.

When the messenger was exposed it was shot.

It was burned, and drugged, and cut from her body.

But there was no laughter or pumpkin pie or

trowel or bypass lopper that could keep it at bay.

Stray dogs dumped from passing trucks

wandered to the end of the dirt road.

Scraggly, smelly, desperate dogs, looking for miracles.

They had the wrong address.

Copyright 2019 – Laurie Marshall

This poem is being posted as part of the #100dayproject. Find out more here.