LUNATIC
I can’t think straight, here
My wife and I moved to the country.
I hate it.
The house.
The clean house.
Marbled from roof to floor.
White death like rooms.
Kitchen, all-metal.
Cold, as if someone had scrubbed the soul away.
I walk around and feel strange.
And, when I am not, that feels strange.
Everything works.
The toilet works fine and is cleaner than my own body.
The lights turn on when you intend them to.
It is so quiet that I can hear my own heart as it beats completely out of rhythm.
Isn’t this perfect, she says.
It’s so peaceful and quiet.
I groan.
I miss my flickering lights, I reply.
The groaning plumbing.
The toilet didn’t flush right so you were stuck with staring at your own shit for an hour.
Watching it swirl around.
The yelling drunk that sat on the corner and yelled at me for money.
I miss my filth, I said again.
You’re a lunatic, she blurts out as she walks away.
I miss my lunatic.
I can’t think straight here. Everything is too…
Clean.
