Occupied Blight

It is usually 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 that 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 breath labors.

Does anyone know

a good contractor?

Have I the resources?

Is there an authority

to appeal to?

              -J. O'Brien