Late Maintenance

The landlord’s tires crunch on the grit.

I’m kneeling here, trying to make it fit.

The caulking gun is cold and heavy in my hand,

sealing up the air I can no longer stand.

My thumb slips once, a smear of white

against the wood in the fading light.

I fixed the draft, I stopped the sound,

just as I’m leaving this patch of ground.

A bead of silicone, a perfect line,

for a window that’s no longer mine.