The Rental<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The stairs to the basement sound like an animal in another language.
\nI smell mold, but think about God and try to understand<\/p>\n
His attention like a particle that might not exist.
\nRealtors have a way of speaking that means nothing<\/p>\n
to me: proximity to transportation; square footage and usable space.
\nI step into the closet to be polite. I think it would be funny<\/p>\n
to moan like a ghost, but don\u2019t. I like the wastefulness of long hallways
\non every floor, the new refrigerator\u2019s virginal magnetism.<\/p>\n
I feel obligated to flush each toilet.
\nShe asks me what I do. She asks me if I have children.<\/p>\n
I listen to water moving in the pipes and condense my face
\nin a way I hope conveys approval. She wonders what I\u2019m holding together,<\/p>\n
and I want to explain all the invisible forces.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
“The Rental” is reprinted from Third Coast.<\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n Jeffrey Morgan<\/a> is the author of Crying Shame<\/em> <\/a>(Blazevox, 2011). Newer poems appear, or will soon, in Barrow Street, Bellevue Literary Review, Painted Bride Quarterly<\/em>, Pleiades<\/em>, Diode,\u00a0<\/a>Third Coast<\/em>, and West Branch<\/em>, among others. He lives in Bellingham, WA and blogs very occasionally at Thinnimbus.tumblr.com.<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" The Rental The stairs to the basement sound like an animal in another language. I smell mold, but think about God and try to understand His attention like a particle that might not exist. Realtors have a way of … Continue reading