I don’t know how many knocks
I’ve had upon my door and
opened it to the sight of
some poor, ill-fated,
hapless crumb ***
standing there
with another
sob story:
“I got kicked out of my house
and I don’t know why.”
it was always the same thing
and yes, they put on quite
a show during their
initial screening
with their
spongy eyes
like ****** cakes
and as vulnerable as a
clay pigeon shot into space.
I’d buy into their dinosaur tears
and they knew I’d take them in
because I was an enabler.
I could never say no.
and next thing you know there was
bodies on the couch,
bodies in the bathtub,
bodies in the basement,
all drunk, drug-addled
and without women.
each time a new one entered the house
it always ran in the same sequence:
first, everything would
start off good, fun even;
they’d buy the beer,
I’d provide the music,
the music brought conversation,
the conversation brought laughter,
the laughter brought moments of joy
and the beer, the music, the conversation,
the laughter is what kept those nights alive.
many lively nights had passed.
gradually, they grew more
comfortable with settling in.
subtly, their courage piqued enough
to overstep some boundaries but not
enough to notice it or brush it off.
they were testing me.
seeing what they could get away with.
I was a pushover,
allowing myself
to get steamrolled
by their daringness.
then I noticed that none of them secured employment.
they’d pour their excuses all over me as to why
they couldn’t work or even pay me rent.
I imagined some interviewer
flipping through pages of their resumes
extending out a long rap sheet of various jobs
knowing they wouldn’t last long.
their twenty-four hour presence
thickened the tension in the house;
up and down the stairs
in and out of the front door
beer run after beer run
& continuous song writing.
I’d come home after the 12 hour shift
to beer cans preoccupying every
countertop and table in the place.
and just like that, I became both the
innkeeper and the house maid.
their incompetent and noise-laden identities
had troubled and angered my counterpart.
it wasn’t her fault though.
she had to put up with
my poor decision making:
I ran our home like a flophouse,
like a homeless shelter, like a charity ward,
like an adult foster care center.
I was inexcusably bad at playing landlord
and at subletting my house.
too much resentment had burst.
she’d curse me. we’d get into it.
the arguing would get out of hand.
then one of them would boldly step up
and say something robust and tumultuous,
interrupting our personal affairs,
as if it was their business,
as if they were now
running the show.
I’d let my emotions get the best of me and snap back at them.
boy, oh boy, did they have an answer for everything.
confrontations were never my strong suit and
winning an argue with these dolts seemed virtually impossible.
I had trouble saying what I really meant and what I really felt.
things never got resolved.
suddenly, it was starting to become abundantly clear;
as to why they couldn’t hold down a job,
as to why no one else would house them.
we’d return to our corners,
let some time blow over and
then reconvene at some later point.
burying the hatchet over a few suds,
only this time I was buying the beer
and they were taking over the music
and the conversations were awkward and dull.
the nights were quickly dying into a stale dankness
our eyes met in silence, there was no more laughter,
the room became uncomfortable, aloof, standoffish
no matter how much the beer and the music worked its charm.
the quality of our lives had gyrated into pure toxic sludge
we were pushed and pushed and pushed beyond our limits.
I was brought out of character; a reasonable man,
driven to do unreasonable things, I too, like so many
before me, had to kick them out of my house and they
hadn’t a clue as to why. they’d put up their fight,
they’d storm out with a dramatic exit and act
like I was losing something valuable.
oh yes, there was a time, when I believed it would be easier
to live in sheer misery over hurting someone else’s feelings.
I was too busy pulling knives out of everyone else’s back
that I didn’t realize how many were stuck in my own
but after many years of waiting it out,
I finally got the message
and had to pin
eviction notices
on the doors
of my beliefs
and on the doors
of the strays,
the rejected
and the runts
of the liter.
