What a shock to freedom’s system.

A three-room apartment doesn’t clean itself.

The floor won’t eschew dust.

Even the cheapest furniture

can’t surrender its stains

without intervention.

And then there’s that accursed dripping tap.

It keeps me up at nights.

But who do I call?

And what about the cockroach

scurrying across the kitchen?

Bad plumbing, insect invasions –

never something I had to deal with

in the house on Boronia Avenue.

The refrigerator won’t fill itself.

The stove is no cook.

I sit in my rescued kitchen chair

and contemplate the situation.

There are pizza boxes in the parlor,

empty bottles by the door.

Like drunken obnoxious party guests,

they show no inclination to leave.

It’s not as if I’m some human wrecking crew.

Most nights,

I watch TV, read or write.

But dirt spreads.

Webs dangle.

Clothes pile up.

The sink fills.

The apartment takes on a life of its own.

And people mistake it for my life.