Blueprint

The landlord's phone just rings and rings,

I'm drawing small and useless things.

Upon the back of a grocery slip,

where the ink began to skip and dip.

I built a house with a slanted roof,

four tiny windows, cold and aloof.

But as the ballpoint pressed the line,

I saw the fault in my design.

There is no knob upon the door,

no way to reach the kitchen floor.

It's just a box where no one goes,

wrapped in receipts for milk and clothes.