Realty school found me
the middle of nowhere,
an island institute shifted
about the tax base.
Deduction-happy and audit-free,
no wear on watch or budget
was too plank-like.
Upscale of catch and bail,
delegates milled around
my tropics, then up
scaled a mudskipper
from the out-there.
Now every single creak
sends me netting!
My turnstile was like a multi-story project,
its sidelong creek a development
of deer, high-headed and economical.
Foreclosure had a tough time here;
regulations never on sabbatical,
public education a quickiemart
for closers bound to buy
the farm before they pay, a fire
placed beneath their in & out baskets.
Do lobster tails switch
near a family-sized pot?
What caught me was a shark
with a pop-up suitcase.
Folks, conduct your interviews here.
I was self-assured;
they staged a downhill war;
there was a suit. Case closed
and pointless given the barge ride
through the settlement of horse sense.
The courts were holding strong
when I commuted—to settle
meant to keep a fishing rod intact.
This has been a terrible reconstruction.
I might never come back. How I enjoy
to tear a bill and send it sailing.
Photo Source: Mobile Foreclosures
