The Leak Upstairs

The ceiling is a map of where I fail.

A brown-edged ring above the foot of the bed

where the plaster has gone soft and pale

and the landlord ignores what I said.

It looks like a coastline on an old map,

a jagged shore of a tea-colored sea.

I listen for the slow, rhythmic tap

of the neighbor’s plumbing on me.

Each drip makes the border move a bit more,

expanding the reach of the rot.

It’s a heavy weight on the bedroom floor

of a life I apparently bought.