The way the Landlady holds
her blade
it is clear she is
competent.
She is content
in this small kingdom
of tracked footprints,
plaster chips,
sprawled tools.
Where would I be without
her?
This endless restoration keeps
her busy.
Sturdy as a three-legged
stool
the Landlady rubs her crimped
knees.
At last she notices me
waiting to negotiate
a price for this
apartment.
I have been here for
years.
How much? I ask.
She shouts—goddam—
at the handyman
whose work is so inept
it could be a performance
piece.
He fumbles with screws,
box cutters—
undoing her work.
The Landlady rips the sheeting
from the window.
Jesus, she’s gotten old.
As have I—
waiting in a corner,
draped in cobwebs
like a veil.
Do I want this restoration?
It will cost everything I
have.
