by Samuel Goldsmith
my mind is listed
as two beds two baths
but calling that closet a bed
is a stretch even when
i spend all night there.
the square footage
includes the basement
place to store spores
and incomplete ideas
dreams and goals sans posts
the only quarter of the abode
in constant use
where the crass cut-grass smell
of power can be found.
not near enough
to nip over to neighbor
and his doorknob face
about to open to a favor
or to deny the hoa fee waiver
whose dog pisses in the postbox
and shits down the chimney.
sought-after property
worth the seven seas to some
priceless to me.
the door is the head of a drum
for pundits to thrum with knuckles
hands with nothing but
opposable thumbs
guests who want to live here too
rest under the desk
unscrew all my hinges
to look with unlidded eyes
shed lashes on the furniture
as if underwater
flashing gills
while i drown.