College apartment

This place is that kind of old

Your parents think is new.

And like them it has wrinkles and scars.

It has that amount of wear and tear

Some realtors call charm

“Lived in”

The carpet is almost shag length

Pumpkin pie orange

Or baby puke green.

The walls are stained in weird places.

There are picture frame shadows on the stairs.

Sink kind of works

And shower kind of dribbles.

Every cupboard, window, and door

SQUEEEEKS, Grinds, or Slams

From the tiptoe of a breeze.

This place has the stagnant Oder

That reminds you of your great grandma’s house,

After she passed.

What you might not notice is,

You are not new or special to this place.

You are a parasite,

A temporary barnacle.

You might not stay long at all,

But you will add to its truth,

Your mess will be its cosmetic disaster.

You will spill your Coolade all over the linoleum.

Leave furniture dents in the carpet

And bed post scars on the walls.

Overtime it will forget you,

Remodel or maybe burn down to nothingness and rock.

But you won’t forget this small smelly sarcophagus of a rental place.

You will study in it, fight your roommate about it, and cry over an x in it.

Change your major 1-2-3-4 times here.

Sit thinking how grateful you are for the shitty roof that creaks

Laugh and wrestle and dance at 3 Am between the thin walls.

For a moment at least you will appreciate the spongy warmth

Of that disgusting shag carpet between your toes.

It’s your college apartment,

Your post dorm sanctuary.

You might hate your roommate for various reasons,

But they are only a footnote, a subtext, an afterthought

To this wondrous black mold- asbestos filled palace-

That at least a short amount of time you can call home.

And that’s something at least.