Help Wanted

Something is leaking

under the sink, unlocated

but gradually turning

the cardboard box

full of Tupperware

to pulp and the damp

smell of basements. The fridge, too, 

leaks. One stove burner worked

poorly, then not at all,

and the girl next door 

has bedbugs. I am still waiting

for the landlord, a repair person,

for my doctor to call, or the clinic,

or the pharmacy. It was four months 

after I painted the living room that I noticed

the matching smear across the front hall

switchplate. The windows cloud

with sand and neglect at roughly the rate

of my damaged corneas,

the cataracts moulding the back

of my good eye. How long

have buttons been missing

from this sweater? How long has that 

tile been stained? Can you help me

to locate the fine line between fixer-upper

and neglect beyond repair?

Marika Prokosh is a Winnipeg poet. Her work has appeared in journals including Prairie Fire, Poetry Is Dead and Lemon Hound, in the anthology QDA: A Queer Disability Anthology, and online at The Toast.