The Studio

300 square feet of empty slowly collecting my crap;

my floored mattress,

busted laptop,

bucket of weed and books.

Five pillows, three bongs,

two dozen works by me on the wall,

four paintings by her and

one by her –

left hanging because it’s so good – 

and a clock and a curtain and

a calendar; my saviour.

A fridge and a stove and a couch and a desk and

suddenly it’s feeling a lot less than 300.

The balcony opens to a vast view

of a very generic skyline,

save the CN Tower, a bit of the lake and The Spit.

I’d spend more time out here but

my neighbor shouts

and the roaches pile so greatly

that I must kick them off and

watch them sink in the wind,

sometimes landing here,

most often landing there

or everywhere.

Inside, I tiptoe past half a puzzle,

dance between grounded canvases

and dodge my bike in the narrow hall,

all to take a shit in

my tiny bathroom.

It’s like my two feet

don’t quite fit

in these 300 squares.

Flash Issue 11