Poor, lonely landlord
love cannot find you
and you’ll be certain of that,
behind the walls, up the stairs,
raging at the injustices
you so carefully tend.

The hiss, the spit, the victim’s screech,
the trembling hands that torch bridge
after bridge after bridge
that lead to the island
alone where you sit
hissing and spitting and screeching.

[Penny-wise. Pound-foolish.
Save a nickel. Spend a friend.
Count your blessings. Not your jewels.]

But the walls are crumbling,
holes are opening,
the edifice no longer protects.
The gardens are dying,
they no longer feed
the imposter that’s stolen your soul.

There’s just you
poor and lonely and lording
over what
exactly.