The landlord’s coming by at ten

The landlord’s coming by at ten

to walk the perimeter again.

I’m hacking through the yellow stalks

that overran the gravel walks.

My shovel hit a metal cage

from some forgotten, greener age.

It’s rusted through and bent in half,

a wire ribcage in the chaff.

I left the vines to starve and die

under a wide and empty sky.

Now I’m just digging for the ground

before the owner comes around.