He quit the happy hour gang
checked his balance
and bought a house to fix.
At first he started slowly
and dozed the yard to mud,
left it fallow three years.
Then he built a taller fence
2 by 8 security, no gate intended
just eavestroughs to the lane.
Dumptrucks rusted on the driveway,
a bobcat sat out front:
play-things of a hoser-boy.
And then he tied the knot.
She said she hardly knew him,
but he had a schedule to meet.
Brought her home, his new-found bride
to his castle, moat, and dog.
And there he kept her very well.
…………………………………………………….
“Each man’s home is his castle.” An old saying, a conventional choice, and life lived via mythology and preferred images. Our lives are always limited and limiting in some ways. But methinks we sometimes really restrict our possibilities and choices, lamely settling for incredibly common scripts and cliches as in this poem. The last line belies whatever pseudo fairy tale happiness implicit here. Beware of the dog , indeed.