GARFIELD
2.12.21
the inspector came today.
He uncovered several cracks on the stucco, gaps on the windows, and shivering on the vinyl floor
among many other things
I’m not sure what encouraged him to eyeglass the un-dusted corners.
I think he may have found the masks I keep in my closet, or the ones I take off in my solitude. Maybe he liked the wings in my laughter, how they’re naked to strangers.
My mirror my have tipped him off to my timeline, too short to bother with ciphers of the mundane, or maybe it was the chimney — holding cradle to history; a decade of keep me warm by the fire, another spitting ashes from a California sky.
Maybe he knows all seven-hundred square feet of this building will be filled with home, I think he sees that in the bookshelves. All near dust-railed by book hinges. They don’t fail to rub their body against the bookshelf a few times a week. Hundreds of characters, thousands of pages, millions of words promised a place to be remembered.
Maybe he knows a short life is synonymous with defiance to impossibility.
Maybe he’s just a decent guy.