Even if I haven’t told you yet,
my house is atrocious.
Birds come and go in holes, so I made a game of it,
guessing which can fly into one
without smacking their stupid damn majestic wings
on the sides.
Slugs and spiders are the least of my worries, as long as
the 5 of each aren’t slugging or spidering around in
my bed before beddy bye time.
I generally throw them outside
if I have the gumption.
The beams are cracking
and the cracks are beaming,
and wouldn’t you know, but the
two pairs of stairs are staring
into my disappointment.
It’s not as bad
as when there were fleas
and diatomaceous earth puddles everywhere,
but now I have these overproductive moths leaving
brackish smudges when I
smush them with my thumb, hand, foot, book, shampoo bottle,
or milk jug.
Termites are concerning,
but they’ve left because real wood was limited
and disconnected.
Despite all this bitching,
I love this house, my home.
It has been the first place I’ve chosen to live in
with an office
a living room
a kitchen
soon to be 2 baths
a furnished bedroom
washer and dryer
and a parlor/yoga studio.
This is more mine than anyone else’s
non-legally,
but I know I won’t
be here forever.
And it might be less than I think
if my landlord reads this.
