by Mary Block
I want some loneliness justified by my location.
I want to purchase a piece of the earth.
I want to be in on that giant joke.
I want a fence around my family.
I want the burden of aging infrastructure.
The urge to complain about all the things
I own. I want the place to look overgrown.
Like, potted plants in the bathroom.
Big buxom banana leaves. Ferns.
I want an alarm. I want to love a place
so much I install a siren.
I want a gut renovation.
Maintain some original details
without all the darkness and wasted space.
I want some land. I want the earth
and the sky above it.
I want the mineral rights, the air rights.
I want the right to take legal action
if someone encroaches on my boundaries.
I want to be right when I say
this whole damn thing is mine.