If an apartment is a person.

The windows are always covered.
Not with curtains but sheets
That have collected too much cat hair.
For the cat’s the only one
Interested in their view.
The only time the windows matter
Is when the AC breaks, and a
Purple fan is placed on the window sill.

The kitchen is always empty.
There’s a small set of dishes,
But only one of each is used,
The others have been forgotten
Probably claimed by dust
In a cabinet never opened.
The fridge is empty too, cooking
Is a foreign as buying groceries here.

The bathroom is always a mess.
Nothing too disgusting,
But you can tell a lot of time
Is spent here, often with music playing.
Sometimes the showers runs just for
The sound and the steam.

The living room always host just one.
Friday nights there’s alcohol to be had,
Maybe movies or games to distract.
An ugly brown recliner finally gets
A chance to be used.

The closet is always divided,
Between what I want to wear and
What I always do.
Most the clothes are old, some are older.
The dresser is a hand-me-down like
All the furniture, not being used as it should.

The desk is always smothered in paper,
Scraps of thoughts that I debate on sharing.
There’s enough pens to supply an army,
But I only use just the one.
It writes smooth, the ink bold easy to read.

The bed is always cluttered.
It’s just a holder for clothes not quite clean,
But not dirty enough to be washed yet.
No one’s slept there for almost a year now.
The mattress is too soft,
The couch is the preferred sleeping spot.

The TV is always on at night.
Sleeping without it feels impossible,
Laying in the dark hearing the walls whisper
Afraid that something will whisper back.

The door is always locked,
But that really doesn’t matter,
The doorknob’s been broken
Since last June. This place is a robber’s
Wet dream, one good kick and you’re in.
It’s making coming and going difficult, I’m afraid
That I’ll get trapped either inside or out.

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allets's picture

The Crib

Sounds lived in.