Deposit Forfeited

The landlord rings the doorbell twice,

a sound like ice against a tray.

I’m looking for a plot—no, advice—

on how to throw a whole life away.

In the pocket of a wool-blend coat

I found a roll of mints, half-gone.

They smell like the ward, a sharp, cold note

that lingers while the sun comes on.

There’s Tupperware on the kitchen tile

with lids that don't quite fit the base.

Something is growing in the pile,

a fuzzy, gray, and quiet face.