Lessor’s Blues

There are no hidden corners

in the many-chambered halls

of my mind that you did not,

at any one point in time,

occupy and found residence.

 

When I close my eyes

and walk down the corridors

of my deepest thoughts,

I find remnants of your habituation:

 

unfinished menthol cigarette butts;

empty hair wax containers;

used prepaid cell phone cards;

a torn-up issue of GQ from 2004;

dried mud, with your boot print, size 11;

a half-eaten carton of Chinese take out;

a black bandana; a tarnished silver skull ring;

and puddles of disappointments,

frustrations, and fears.

 

I have no use for any of this

and I am in no mood for cleaning up

after you have gone without a trace.

 

It is far easier to set these halls ablaze,

to set my memory on fire

with two large cans of kerosene

and a match from a hotel matchbox

I’ve kept for days such as these.

 

Black smoke will escape

from every one of my orifices,

giving off a stench of anger and despair,

not unlike the smell

of all things rotten

and spoiled.

 

It will take days, maybe even weeks,

before my body will cool down

and resume human form.

 

But this is the lessor’s burden:

he who invites a tenant

must deal with the things that are left behind

when they depart.

 

Next time, be intent to sell

and don’t ever give them a reason to leave.

 

 

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