Current Resident Poem

I’d swallow platinum weed-eater line
as long as I got to pick out your clothes,
but I’ve already nibbled all the potholders,
puffy filling blown by a fan;
the kitchen is closed.

Waited up early for the garbageman
to take away all the evidence.
It fell on the street from a dented can
labeled with two former addresses
since it’s always “So-and-So or Current Resident.”

I’d wade knee-deep through the bacon fat
as long as I got your wallet,
so three ghosts popped up and threw down the gauntlet;
people cave when they get what they ask for,
like when those pop stars asked for silence and got it.