Occupied Blight

Occupied Blight
Always between

the last of the brain's

end-of-day wane

and sleep we speak,

or I do. Does he hear,

the landlord, while I beg
for renovation,

if not eviction?

I exist between him

and the tenant who all day

prior to my pleading

I hear working at survival.

There's a message

in his urgent scurry:

the things I do to live

weaken the structure,
deteriorate the exterior.

There are breaches in my breaches.

Everything's getting looser,

everything is less secure.

The jambs are warped,

the whole frame is leaning.

You are falling down.

Is this the way

every body ends:

a soul begins

to panic, to scurry

more urgently.

With every chunk

of plaster that falls,

with every patch of rust that rises

fear spreads, and the soul's breathing labors.

Does anyone know a good contractor?

Have I the resources?

Is there an authority to appeal to?

                              -J. O'Brien