Clack

by Craig Donofrio

Those bottles. They are broke and scooping up into the air

like little orange rib cages.

The cockroaches shuffle through the room, smelling sadness in their hearts.

The smell of wet and turgid rats swimming

in the bath tub wafts through.

High-def porn on an endless loop in the bedroom,

the skin recedes from the nails.

A spot of shadow grows, fades, as the sun leaks through a pair of pulled curtains,

Stains dilate, soak,

something hangs from the ceiling fan and something drips.

Garbage bags like spider eggs bake under the kitchen window

the alarm battery has gone out.

The others slam and shift their doors

and

it is only a matter of time before the stench

rises through the cracks in the ceiling.