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complaint :: william logan

by on August 13, 2018

The faucets squeeze
out a dribble of rust.
The stained slip-covers

fray like seaweed. Scruffy, haggled
weeds confined to broken pots;
shy, disfigured poppies;

a barked rose succumbing
to white-frocked aphids—
the garden doesn’t work. The heater

doesn’t work. Nothing works.
Who lives in such a house?
The pipes piss and moan,

as if forced to pay taxes.
If there are dream houses,
are there undreamed houses

full of the things we desire,
or only those we deserve?
Perhaps they are the homes

of strange gods with some
incomprehensible, whimsical
way of looking at things.

You said we waded through the mysteries to get here.

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