Issue 5

Valley Road Realtor

 · Poetry

Even though I tap my nails in front of the camera
don’t ask what’s in the clear bag.
I’m not a crystal chandelier in a parking lot
waiting for a ribbon of quietly humorous e-mail.

After accounting for three little pit-bulls
I appreciate a good pen point on textured paper 
more than a fishbowl in morning traffic.

This isn’t a gig where you land three-day weekends 
when we need red-bone fence stakes, kiddo,
for the strings of the surveyor’s banjo.
It’s always before Monday. 
I’ve driven tacks on the roof after a snowstorm.

Anyway, I haven’t yet transacted a graveyard.

The asking price should always be suggestive.
I’m good at more than location
when it’s your place or mine. 

When he bid me to move in next door
Hefner discovered I’m always so smack-the-lips organized.

No matter what, I’m never late for an appointment. 
Even a nomad belongs to a place in the bones of haggling.

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