The scratches on the walls are hardware store hieroglyphics.
Coupons from the departed, I would guess.
Messages with black cats and vases and GE appliances
those insidious Maytag spirit guides, screeching
“15% off through Memorial Day weekend!”
I fear this isolation may be driving me mad,
but not inside a new BMW 3 Series which would be nice;
but instead an old ’77 Impala with bad brakes.
I’ve seen it in the hieros, you know.
There are mice beneath my floorboards,
or maybe rats with long elbows
charging ruthless interest
(they have mood swings like you wouldn’t believe).
They are greasy crawling things, but that’s not all, I think.
Oh, those boxes under the stairwell,
the smell of mildew and rot,
infested with my lesser judgment.
I dread their capricious cargo, ancient and non-refundable, you see,
everything useless from A to Z.
The scratches on the walls from
the postal workers who haunt me:
they want me to let them in.
And I shall,
for they may deliver me from this place
in three work days or less.