When the Neighbors Sell their Knock-Down in Just Four Years for Twice What They Paid for it
They spiff it up,
repair old siding,
cut into the crumbling hillside
to squeeze in a bonus room.
Throw on a coat of paint, shiny
like a chrome-plated lie.
Bucolic gem among the pines—
reads the realtor’s sales pitch.
So much potential. The realtor gaunt
in high heels, a plucked chicken
in a power suit. Signs go up.
Buyers come & bid & fight
each other over the price,
wrestling like amateur grapplers
in the mud of a dive bar. Short
escrow & the sellers decamp
to North Carolina to try
its Southern charm, this
also a lie. Now our eyes
shine with possibility. We too
could gentrify, cash out
on our constant fixer, our old house
groomed for the highest bidder
eager for a quick flip
as young techies move
their crypto AI brains into the void
and demo what we worked
so hard to preserve. And then
we move where old people
who never planned ahead go—
elder mobile home community
in a nearby town or a college town
up north where it rains & students
study science & the classics,
and we can still pretend our lives
contain a wealth of options.
Dotty LeMieux
Dotty has published five poetry chapbooks, including “Henceforth I Ask Not Good Fortune” from Finishing Line Press in 2021 and “Viruses, Guns and War” from Main Street Rag Press in 2023. She formerly edited the literary and art journal, The Turkey Buzzard Review. Her work has appeared in publications such as Rise Up Review, Loch Raven Review, Painted Bride, MacQueen’s Quarterly, Gyroscope, and Wild Roof. She lives in Northern California with her husband and two active dogs, where she practices environmental law and manages progressive political campaigns.
