the landlord

my landlord
won't fix
the plumbing.
there is no
hot water, at
least hardly
enough to sit
and soak in his
rusty tub. there
are bugs too,
and i've found
mice chewing
on the phone
wires, getting
into the
cupboards.
my landlord
says that he
needs to raise
the rent if he
fixes the leaky
roof and paints
the stairwell
where the kids
have written
graffiti and
drawn crude
pictures of
men and women
having sex.
there is absolutely
no proportion,
or perspective in
the art. i
can hardly have
anyone over
for dinner with
that in the hallway.
my landlord
tells me that
i'm lucky to have
a place to sleep,
a place to live
in this city. he
says that i should
be thanking him
for all that he
does for me. he
laughs as he takes
this month's rent
out of my hands.
what are you writing,
he asks, pointing
at my desk.
keep the noise
down with that thing,
he tells me
as he leaves the
apartment, people
are complaining
about you. i shut
the door and go
to my typewriter.
it's my only form
of revenge. you'll
see i whisper
you'll see, and i
begin to type.