The telephone is ringing;
The assessor’s on the line.
He wants to avoid meeting us,
and asks us if that’s fine.
In essence, he wants us to lie
and say his job is done;
He’s three hours from New Orleans
and the drive in is not fun.
Of course, we need to meet him,
to settle our affairs;
some closure, so we can pretend our
mortgage holder cares.
Official now, the verdict:
what we had is wholly gone,
and if we’re lucky we may get
nothing to start upon
instead of owing thirty grand
for something we can’t use:
a toxic spot of swampland
and a use for rubber shoes.
The telephone’s stopped ringing;
all those promising some aid
are pondering our paperwork
in bureaucrat charade.
We found some friends who made it out,
like us, they’ve lost it all;
but now we’ve got each other
when there’s no one else to call.
Some said they’d help, and didn’t,
others took us by surprise;
you find out who your friends are
in such times, and realize
of course, there is some clarity
to be gained from all this:
the next time we’re on fire who we
can count on not to piss.
06 OCT 2005
