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.
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