Capturing Campus: Homebody

Homebody

The copper hinges on the backyard door groan when it rains

pipes thundering like a dejected one man drumline

the clothes line snapped last month

just before the sink ran dry

but the wallpaper got wet somehow

and the ceiling weeps every morning

It sags like peeled flesh

with mold like hair growing 

or maybe I’m imagining the fuzz in the fridge

that’s not frigid anymore

and I wonder if that’s why they call fridges fridges

or if chairs always had three legs instead of four

but that can’t be right because the kitchen table has two 

and my bed squeaks because it’s lonely

I’ll grease the hinges next time it rains