Jangle the lock
like an incompetent guest entering your own home
push the door and stumble in
to a fresh breath of warmth and marijuana
seeping in from the neighbors
upstairs holds
plants and nailed planks and furniture
wooden tables, a wicker chair, flowers
things that shackle you to
something like a comfortable prison
things you thought you wanted
material, ideological
things you can no longer keep up with,
things now meaningless
respite is an ironic rocking chair you
can't leave on the porch untethered
due to weather and
the high incidence of crime
books on the floor
evidence of your fading heritage all too real
the doorbell rings and a deliveryman with a soggy box of roses
hands you a clipboard and collects your half-inked signature
that pen is dying, you muse, because of the cold
and the vase goes in the warmest room
because here the food won't spoil
and the mung won't sprout
like it does in the summer
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