On the occasion of countless numbers of home owners ignored in the Wall Street bailout.
The me-bodies don’t have enough of anything.
Nameless, faceless, in dwellings that don’t touch the ground.
There is no we where they live.
No front porch for passing the time.
Down dark halls, big locks on the door. Nobody there but me’s.
They do not remember, poor souls, the sweet smell, breathing the day in and out.
The me-bodies have traded loan papers but they do not know us.
A letter used to come every month from somewhere within the skyscraper.
Now it comes from another skyscraper next door.
“Hello,” I say.
Option 1
“Could I speak to…?”
Option 2
“Do you know our house and our pretty little neighborhood? It is just enough of everything.”
Option 3
“Would you like to come and see what you own? We could sit on the porch and visit with the passersby?”
Disconnect.
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