Acrid Homes

Drips into
metal pans
leaving
chemical
traces
from
the
hard-swollen
rain.

The smell
never
fully scrubbed
away.


The staunch memories
of flophouse
nights
hit me
like
flashbacks


of drugs I’ve never
done.


And I wonder if
the 9-5 conformity
was ever worth
the sacrifice
of always
having
a cheap
drink
and a free
cuddle
from some
punk laid
out on
a love-stained
floor.


This contributive camaraderie
never as tight
as the
warm embrace
of a one-shoed
man
wearing a
Dorothy dress
and dreaming
only
of
the next day.


The paint always
peels, bubbles away from
the wall


Full
of roof-water
or
mold
or
pain.

--Jessica Gleason