December 20, 2020

The Landlady

(c) 2009  

By the way the Landlady holds her blade
it is clear she is competent.
It’s possible even, that she has found contentment
in this small kingdom of tracked footprints,
plaster chips, sprawled tools and baited mouse traps.  
Where would I be without her?
Reflection always has a price.
This endless restoration has kept her busy.
Sturdy as a three-legged stool
the Landlady stands, rubs her crimped knees.
She finally notices me waiting
to negotiate a price for this apartment.
I have been here for years.
How much? I ask. She yells, goddam
at the slovenly handyman whose work is so inept
it could be a performance piece.
Why is he even here - a misogynist
sabotaging  her work with screwdrivers and box cutters?
The Landlady rips sheeting from the window letting light in.
Jesus, she’s gotten old.  And so have I, waiting 
in a corner, draped in cobwebs like a weeping veil.
Do I want this restoration? It  will cost everything I have.


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