in dark silence, i complain
to no-one in particular
that i cannot stay here.
the space is too small, and
isn't what was advertised or sold;
a grevious bait-and-switch,
and so i'd like to speak to
management--who tells me
nothing.
later on, a representative calls
to tell me in her pretty voice, space
being what it is, i'll have to stay
and try to compact my frame
to fit what's been given me
or sleep outdoors and wait
with no guarantee for better digs,
plus--a litany of other losses and
regrets.
back, and back again i go
hammering on the manager's door,
convinced that somehow all my
pleading (embarassed and indignant)
will change his iron will. no response
is tendered, yet the act becomes
a balm upon this wound: suffering
in noise to salve the painful
silence.
i never shrink, nor compact, nor
move. the space remains my own, and
i fill it to the brim, a bittered tenant
to my own unwanted place. there is
no resolution known nor hoped, only
dismal continuity to my sneering fate.
late some night, i'll start again to raise my
self-pitying declarations, and find i am
alone
among the ruins of this cavernous
constriction. that's always what
it wasn't, i suppose; i never wanted
the management at all--likely even,
i never minded much the space, just
wanted not to be so wronged, to be
so poorly served. but then, alone,
i suppose i'll find i only wanted to be
heard.
february 2015
