Attic Apartment

Carpeted everywhere, even the bathroom,

where a tattooed poet is wrestling a snake

headfirst in the bath tub, which hasn’t drained

since 1997.  There’s a television set too big

to fit out the door, a party of axes salivating

to get seated for demolition.  The door to the

kitchen hangs like a cheap wig on its hinges.

It’s the top hat on the tux shop below.  The

industrial-strength washers in the basement

are always churning, attended by an audience

of thousands of neatly shined shoes.  Back

doors, pocket stairs, and one secret we didn’t

find until just footsteps from leaving—a room

you had to crawl into from behind Joanna’s

headboard, with a couch and insulation waving

like old friends you thought had made off

with your favorite sweatshirts a long time ago.