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?
