Get drunk—I'm trying to say goodbye
to this place. I want to scribble
my heart out onto the fire escape,
and leave secrets in my plywood desk.
Grabbing the dirtiest corners of the carpet
I try to force the dust of this place
into me. Through the pollen crusted window
I stare at the tree, jealous. He will
never have to make a new home.

Screw—I want to cry, to scream,
and make love, on every inch of carpet.
This place is much bigger than I am,
so I resolve to leave myself here instead.
It's gone to hell. I never clean,
but at least it's my shit all over the place:
crypto books, Frege notes, cough drops
Dixie cups, and Saltines.

Screw—soon
all of your fears will be described by the pause
of the piano in the song which is playing
as you look outside over your street realizing
that it isn't even yours. And I'll be gone
to a place with eight coats of cheap egg shell paint
and a little barking dog.