a leaking shack—
and found the home my dying husband
had secretly rebuilt for me,
paid off, solar-powered, mine forever,
with a notebook that said:
they care how things look.
You care whether things last.
Watch what happens next.
So I watched.
I watched them demand I pay the penthouse bills.
I watched them come to my gate
to inspect a home they’d mocked,
to stay a weekend they weren’t invited to,
to take money I’d finally stopped giving.
And I reached into my apron
for the little black remote
