I am fighting to evict someone from a house in my head.
The lease is with a guest long vanished, but the house’s contents remain intact.
Inside lights have been dark for a year.
Snow on steps is free of footmarks. Rain overflows leaf-clogged eaves.
Newspapers flap against porch railings like trapped birds. Mail overflows the box.
This will happen:
Sun will bleach siding, exposing its grain, and it will gnarl in rain.
The roof will leak, warping floors.
Pipes will burst. The furnace will die.
The foundation will crumble; the house will list and fall. Rubble will tumble into the cellar, hidden by weeds and thriving vines.
This I will say:
The house was mine, but the tenant ruined it.