estate agent in the rain
with a mallet
banging a for sale sign
in front of a house
next to mine. she's wearing
a mink stole
and a red dress
with red high heels.
her white Cadillac Escalade
is idling in the street.
she waves.
i wave.
she starts towards me,
but i make the sign
of the cross
with a butter knife
and spatula i have in my
grocery bag.
she falls backwards
into the mud.
there's a trickle of blood
coming out
of her surgically altered nose.
are you thinking about
selling anytime
soon, she whispers, trying
to catch her breath.
maybe renting?
here take my card.
call me anytime.
carefully i reach over
and take her card.
I look at the picture.
who's this i ask,
putting the spatula away,
but holding the knife
out.
that's me.
but it doesn't look like you.
it's professionally done.
none of us look like
our pictures, it's photo shopped,
air brushed.
glossed over.
they make us do it.
i wished i looked like that,
but i don't.
people won't call if they
see what i really look like.
you catch more flies with
honey, than vinegar she says,
pulling out
a printout detailing the local
listings
in the area.
what's your square footage?
new furnace?
wood floors?
i shake my head and laugh,
then
go over to help her out
of the mud.
it's okay, i tell her.
relax.
i'll call you when i'm ready,
okay?
i have your card.
okay, she says. maybe i'll stop by
next week.
preferably at night, sunlight
has a tendency
to turn me into dust.
a full moon would be nice.
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