Slumlord
by Odin Roark

Staring at the paint-peeling-ceiling,
I wonder…

Are you the slumlord
no one can ever find?

Are you the sole superintendent,
sole rent collector, and sole owner,
prowling up and down the rickety stairs at night?

Do you play ladies of the night video tapes
in your hovel? Word’s out you hole up in the mouse and rat infested
boiler room.

Do you have partners who all live like you…kings of nothing?
I mean, is there a sort of club for you guys?

We hear you have lady guests every night. Dead lady guests.
How about tonight? I hear sex addiction put a lot of girlies in the movies.
Is Billie Holiday coming tonight, or is this Clara Bow night?
Is Rita Hayworth tucked away in that library?

Yeah, the word’s out in the building

You know…the basics shouldn’t be such a struggle,
even in a bottom feeder rent building like this one.

Maybe that’s why you retire late at night to your boiler room paradise,
tossing a fluorescent pair of dice in the darkness long after the rest of us
are plagued with listening to the faucets drip,
the radiators belch their limited bits of steam,
the neon sign across the street trying desperately to stay alive,
and of course the incessant little claws scratching behind the walls.

No chance you have an immortal soul. How about a plain
ordinary, everyday kind? Probably not possible.

But anyway…

Thanks for listening God… if you’re really there.