Vacuum Empire

Mr. Miracle lived in my

townhouse right before I moved in.

Found slips of paper scattered

on the floor with affirmations.

One of them gave an equation

that fifty demos led him to

fifteen sales. Fifteen sales led to

independence, which meant girlfriend.

There was vacuum literature

strewn about the carpet – under

the sink. He sold in pursuit of

wealth beyond measure and deserved.

He wanted to move from Richmond

to Prestonsburg and start over.

Loving the people who lived there.

Knowing he could make it his home.

He had painted the walls many

colors with stripes of varying

width in a mismatch of cultures

giving it his own sense of style.

But he left in a big hurry,

leaving clothes and belongings all

over: stuff that mattered to him,

his rushed departure concerning.

Thirty-two years ago when he

walked out without a plan on how

all these things could come together,

telling in his chaos exit.

But, goddamn, I hope he sorted

it all out with love in his life

and a vacuum empire waiting

on the kind streets of Prestonsburg.