Capturing Campus: This ain’t his house

This ain’t his house

a man lives in my attic

I don’t know if he knows that I know that he lives in my attic

but he sure as hell knows that I know that this ain’t his house

his feet don’t hit the floorboards right

the house squeaks to let him know

he fuzzied the bristles on my toothbrush  

and the cabinet doors are wide open 

he lets them breathe

speakin’ something sad

Every night is a rhythm:

stomp the steps

lift the door 

plump the pink 

pillow in my attic—not his but mine

because this ain’t his house

though he snores like he owns it

I’ll talk to him tomorrow