Money is hidden throughout this house, piles of it.
This house is full of secrets.
I know. I put them there.
Look in the bottom of the dog food bag, under the onions in the crisper, behind the painting of the blues musician, in the twisted coil of maidenhair fern on the patio. Hundreds of bills, thousands of coins, a myriad whispers, the lists of my lovers, all right there for the finding.
But first, you have to get inside: no cakewalk, my friend. You have to slip past the gargoyles, front and back.
The dog awakens at the sound of a petal falling, sure that barbarians are at the gate. She opens wide her yellow teeth.
All rights reserved.
I self-described to my hairdresser that I am secretive. Then I came home and wrote this to prove it.