Very rarely, maybe once a decade,
I write a zine in verse. From this one I
choose an obituary.

    George, the former
owner of my house, died in June.
Over thirty years ago he bought
a narrow vacant lot across the street
from here. For thirty years he tried to get
a zoning variance so he could build
his dream house there. Finally, it must have been
in 1995, he got permission.
By then his wife was dead, his kids long since
grown up and moved away. So he built
a cute little house just for himself, complete
with a garage under the living room.
In the summer of 1996
I bought his old house and he moved across
the street, and only two years later he
died of cancer. I remember George
for every crooked screw I find.

Original version, August 1998.
Updated and added here January 2012.