Tonight's Poet Corner: Foreclosure

Foreclosure
by Belinda Roddie

This house is the last true home
where I stayed before the tyrant walked
in with a stick and summoned me away. His
crown sat lopsided on his broken head; no
jewels, but he claimed it was made of gold. I

can count the number of bricks that hadn't
cracked under the strain of the elements
on one hand - with three fingers. Jealous
of such a ramshackle haven, he cast me
into the street corner, shoved shards of

asphalt under my nails, and expected me
to laugh through the pain. His authority
was faded ink on a deed. This house is
where I last sang to my wife before she
left for a personal planet that was easier

to fit in her pocket than my anxieties.
When my job grew legs and ran away
from me, she remembered that she already
had two good ones to help her do the same.
The tyrant wore a suit with his circlet. It was

stained with mocha nightmares and ketchup
that escaped the follicles of stale French fries.
He kept his face buried in newspapers at diners,
grinding already ground beef into a paste so
he could digest it better. Everything had to be

efficient in his kingdom. And this house was
the last symbol of my freedom standing in his
way. When he found out my wife had left me,
he made no secret of his glee; I've seen lions
less enthusiastic over freshly stripped meat. I'm

supposed to rebuild my life just two cities away,
but somehow, I can't move forward. Not when
my cuticles still sting from the gravel he inserted
into the open orifices of my skin. My teeth ache
just thinking about the impact of the curb. No

sympathy was offered to me in a paper bag. Just
the arms of my mother around my waist, and my
father swearing on his life that he'd topple the regime.
But it didn't matter. The bricks will crumble sooner
than we expect, and he, poor wasted monarch, will sit

atop a throne that's rusted before the rainy season.
The only comfort I have left is the fact that once
this is all over, the thorns in his crown will pierce
the paper thin shield around his weak brain, and he
will bleed out and stain the oceans of my wife's

personal planet red, and poison the marine life
within it. And I will revisit this house, even if
it has devolved into an empty shell, and I will
move my bed into its vast cavity, and sleep
to the sound of its growling and hungry stomach.