To My Landlord
Paul, the house is sinking, and the stairs are rotting,
and this winter the pipes froze and burst.
So this summer, I will sit on the porch
chant: lavender, lavender, lavender
and roll blunts while the walls sweat
and the floorboards swell.
I will drink dandelion wine
and surrender the house
to vines and rot, to mildew
moss, and mold.
I will plant marigolds in the front,
wisteria in the back and creeping
jenny on the sides.
In three months,
when you come back to check
behind every decaying piece of plaster,
you will find chives and peppermint.
You will find three months of dirty dishes
and dust on the dining room table.
You will find a six foot pillar of files, several
roaches, and the sun bleached bones of a prophet.
Go ahead, keep the security deposit.