THE PREVIOUS TENANT

Down below the snowy window, a homeless man sleeps atop the garbage bin.
The manager walked me down the dark hall, hacking- $210 a month, includes utilities.
As her keys jangle in the lock she says, "The last guy who lived here nearly burned the place down.
I came in here and he was face down on the couch, butt naked in high heels, dinner on the stove."

The hum of the city, outside, below.
the previous tenant left the shower curtain,
a collage of black-and-white movie stills,
Claudette Colbert, Greta Garbo, Clark Gable.
I liked it. It still smelled like plastic.

She said the carpets would be cleaned,
but after I moved in, still,
weeks later
they smelled wet of chemical cleaner and something else that was of a different atomic structure.

In the bathroom,
I open the 40s medicine cabinet thick with white paint.
The roaches scatter so fast out of the corner of my eyes when I flick on the light,
as if they were surprised and blushed at expecting someone else,
before they shyly dart back into the corners.

One  cockroach carcass remained inside the medicine cabinet.
I left it there.
A sandy, red, dry roach.
I looked at it every day,
as I brush my teeth,
the same as I looked out the window and saw the homeless man
every day,
as I tried to get to know my previous tenant outside,
down below.


Spring 2004