I pretend now, on Sundays,
that I did what all my friends did years ago:
went to work, for good pay
bought a house in a nice place,
four walls, a roof,  a staircase
A place where nobody can stomp on my ceiling
petulant to find themselves living in a shithole
rented too dearly from an evil entity
in a neighborhood about to be gentrified
with nothing to say about anything.

I pretend, on Sundays, now,
alone in this old house,
as I play the guitar as loud and long as I want,
that I have always lived in the land of the free
and the home of the brave.