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.
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