Rental

Some days I feel smug, cocky

That I have diligently examined

Old beliefs, cleaned house.

Last night I had a dream.

I lived in a rental, cluttered

With old furniture, broken

Chairs, stained rugs, a spare bed.

Things I didn’t use, I didn’t see

Until a woman came to rent

An upper apartment.

What is it like here? she asked.

It’s okay. I’m used to it.

I woke up. Clearly, I’ve more work to do,

Spaces to clear, chuck the cracked leather chair,

Roll the stained rub out to the curb,

Toss things I’m storing that aren’t mine,

Old hurts, resentments, imagined history,

All renting space in my head.

It’s okay. I’m used to it, comfortable.

Who knows what my life might hold

If only there were room

To get inside the door?