Had hardwoods and crown moulding

I thought I could afford. I signed the lease,

sick of driving everything I owned

down every street, a stack of scratched-out Greensheets

like a ledger of the city’s mildewed

studios & flimsy gates, each backyard

bungalow adrift in weeds. In one, new glass

in a window overlooked a sagging fence,

chain-link wrapped with kudzu from the wooded lot

behind. The landlord’s sheepish grin.

Last month someone broke in. He took

a shower, ate some leftovers out of the fridge.

Good thing she wasn’t home. What do you think?

I told the first lie of my rental history:

I’d think about it. On Sul Ross, 1827

sat high above the street, above the flood

that took out half the block last spring. 

The landlord’s wife showed me the ornate scrolls

that made the windows safe. Deadbolts,

front & rear. A church across the street.

The girls across the hall are sweet. Upstairs

we have an Oriental but don’t worry—

she stopped having company. I don’t know why

this closet smells like this—I think

the girl before smoked pot. She was Mexican.

What will you study at the university?

English, I said. My mother studied English.

Did she teach? A laugh. Teach? Honey,

she married money. Her husband owned 

this place. At least this block’s still safe.

The price that one must pay. I moved right in. 

By winter, they’d turned off the heat. 

I could barely pay the rent. Mrs. Pimlott changed

the locks. I moved in with a friend. 

When I walked by in spring the guy next door

wondered where I’d been & had I heard

about the tenant after me?

She’d been raped & beaten in her bed.

Such mercy in regret: that I lived

to tell you my mistakes.