On an Old Apartment Building

They can’t always be upbeat now, can they? Here’s #2, as yet untitled, and perhaps a work to revisit again someday:

Dripping through illusions of safety,
our bane rusts the homestead beams,
rots the wood,
turns the roof overhead
to pulp.
Where maintenance means
“next week”
then “the week after,”
it is difficult to believe
in the contracts between people.
Days add up
as shower water trickles down
and little solace is left after
wringing towels and watching clocks.

Whether it’s harder to breathe
the fiberglass or the mold,
who can tell,
but we can’t swallow promises
anymore
and the air is still thick.

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