Prose Poem: We Never Know.

 

My neighbor Tom got very rich

selling a non-fungible token.

He bought me a string of sandalwood

meditation beads,

and then moved to Flathead Lake

in Montana,

where he built a huge log cabin.

He let me buy his old place for a song,

and I was happy to get it;

my house needed a new roof and

all the downstairs windows replaced.

Tom's place was in very good repair,

and nearly a third larger.

When I  moved in I found a trapdoor

down in the basement laundry room.

It was sealed shut, so I put a rug over

it and forgot about it.

Years later, after I had moved 

into one of the first terrariums

designed for humans on the Moon,

the new owners managed to pry open

the trapdoor to discover a complete set

of Maryknoll magazines from 1933 to

1969. In mint condition.

They weren't worth anything,

really.

But it just goes to show

that we never know,

do we?