These four walls with their white textured surface
And the wooden strips that cover the seams
In the presurfaced sheets of drywall. These
Four walls, the blank canvas painting my life.
These four walls. Will your shabbiness leach in
My morning cup of coffee like so much
Leaded paint? Will it fill my lungs like the
Black mold that brings men in hazmat suits to
Cover the neighborhood in plastic tubes
Only to have the anniversary
Release with FBI men’s guns replaced
By walkie-talkies like E.T.’s PC
Police run amuck wondering if they
Believe the kinds of lives they’ve come to live?