30 Days

I’m going to miss

this dumpy house.

It has scars,

like I do.

It’s old,

like how my body feels.

It’s got a soul,

and I probably have one of those, too.

This house has a memory

that is clearer than mine;

it’s been sober longer,

and alive

much longer–

it probably has me by 20 years.

Even though it’s beat to shit now,

it was worth close to a million,

at one point.

In this crazy rich and popular town,

the housing market swings to the

unpredictable pendulum—

that is the western economy.

In this long dying

democracy,

we surf the waves of money;

and sometimes,

we have to swim furiously

just to stay afloat.

30 days to find a shore.

30 days to find new walls.

30 days of swimming in a storm.

30 days to find a new home.

I’m sure,

that if I keep pumping my legs,

I’ll find a new home.

It’s just that,

I’ll miss this one.

But, I guess

that’s what happens when you get suddenly evicted.

-C.H.