The Little Red House on the Avenue

  
The house I grew up in was red,
and then one day, it was not.
You painted it a yellowy shade of cream,
and said it looked better,
newer, bigger, like a nicer home.
But with half our yard
filled with struggling shrubs, browning crabgrass, and piles of dog crap,
and the other half
filled by run-down, rusted classic cars rotting over rocks and mud,
and the front window 
patched with strips of silver duct tape
to cover the hole you put through the glass with your juvenile temper,
I don’t think anyone was ever fooled into thinking
our family was not a hot load of American white trash bullshit.