By Gregory Mone
Went for coffee and a cookie at 7A. Closed.
Looped back State Road to Scottish. Closed.
Little House, every summer house. Closed.
Farmstands, galleries, Edgartown. Closed.
So I returned home, despondent and Rockbound.
Closed?
My house was gone, every shingle, nail and beam.
Every fork and dish, every chair and bed and couch.
A note was pinned artistically to the ugly pine,
The one too expansive and expensive to remove,
Announcing artistically that my house had hastily
Capitalized on those fabulous fares to Guadalupe,
And planned to return, with renewed optimism,
In the Spring.
Is that soon?
Gregory Mone is a novelist and hockey parent who lives in West Tisbury.
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