From a comfortable internet portal in L.A.

I bought my first home in Upstate New York,

one you’d call a ‘crap shack.’

Not particularly attractive

or popular with neighbors,

what few there were off the Parkway,

but I certainly didn’t think

it deserved to be burned down.

 

Two weeks after closing,

And a week after moving in,

the fires began breaking out

in the detached garage, late at night,

or when I wasn’t home.

I hooked up a webcam, and the next time

I came home to fire engines,

I invited Cpt. Carl Spicier into my den.

We clicked a couple buttons and there she was,

a thin, wispy blonde with obvious tattoos,

a Bic lighter, and some wadded paper.

Two hours later, I was in an interrogation room

across from Chrissy Hines,

local character.

 

“Why are you trying to burn down my house?”

 

“I didn’t try to burn down your house.”

 

“Fine. Why are you trying to

burn down my garage?”

 

And she told me. And I didn’t talk.

I dropped the charges. Then

Chrissy and I rode out to my place,

struck my grandfather’s Zippo

and lit the wadded napkins she’d pilfered

from the parkway Burger King.

She tossed it with a grunt

into the mouth of the garage

where a neighbor had taken her

some afternoons.

 

And when Captain Spicier reappeared,

I held up a hand and said:

“just the house.”

 

Chrissy rented a room from me for 12 years, in fact

she was the best property manager I ever had,

because sometimes other people know how

to handle history

better than we do.