Ruth Z. Deming
I don’t care much what other folks
think, but at my age – pushing
seven-oh, I still can’t believe
I own my own house and my own car.
Yawning, though engaged, during the
film Age of Adaline, my mind jumped
ship to that favorite thought. I – see
me jumping up and down? – own my
own house and my own car.
Own! The sweetest song in
America. Listen to its verses
Property owner. Homeowner.
Homeowner’s insurance. Buy
both car and home for a
“buyer’s discount.” I am doing
cartwheels on the carpeted floor.
Though I speak with the royal “we”
I live alone. Solicitors come by.
Before we slam the door in their faces – a red door
I painted myself – I put them through
paces. A black guy named Dwayne
sat on the red couch and listened to
my poetry. Two Jehovah’s Witnesses
dressed in black, heard a tirade about
The God of Israel. Sammy put in the
storm window on my side door. Please,
dear God, I pray, let me not think
who will live here when I’m gone.
Roasted, while dead, like next week’s