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
