Topography of a Rental

The water is taking its time to get hot,

so I’m reading the plastic like a book.

There’s a bloom of mildew in a darkened spot,

hiding in the fold of a silver-plated hook.

It’s shaped like the coast of a place I used to live,

back when I thought a map was something you could trust.

It has that same jagged edge that people forgive

until the salt and the humidity turn it to rust.

I watch the yellow rings screech across the bar,

a sound like a bird with a broken wing.

You can tell exactly where the dampest parts are

by the way the cheap vinyl decides to cling.

I’m tracing the border of a city that’s gone,

while the steam starts to blur the bathroom glass.

I’m just waiting for the heat to finally come on

and let the memory of the pavement pass.