I can’t believe I live anywhere.

The apartment walls are cracked

in irregular patterns that look regular.

This place fits me—

Always a downstair neighbor’s bass bump

away from crumbling.

Then where would I live?

Once, I lived under a house.

I kept time to the sobs of a woman inside.

I was a cricket then—jumping

toward threats, eating only

myself—the hind legs the last

to go after the antennae.

This place won’t crumble, of course.

The cracks in the wall are just Sharpie,

and that’s how it fits.

I wear it out sometimes

when I go to the bars—drunks enjoy

tracing the lines to the outlets.

I wear it out until it’s just thread,

then color a new one.

Different patterns this time,

same themes: hunger, myself,

disbelief. I can’t believe in homes.

I’m agnostic about homes.

The homes are out there

but they aren’t for anyone.

Under my bed—a pile of postcards

returned to sender.

Copyright © 1999-2018 Juked