Rental
Motes swirled in windows
like stars in The Starry Night.
Water stains framed
mirrors in bursts of gray-gold.
The landlord’s lips were thin,
her lipstick coral.
She braved the tropical storm
to unlock closets:
her Waterford crystal.
Branches needed pruning
but all I seemed to do
was dream of Heathcliff.
I never scrubbed
or mowed enough.
I leaned my bike—created tracks—
against the accent wall.
She said No.
No need to search
for my replacement.
She’d done living with my choices.
Feature Image: Daniele Idini