I live in half a house.

The foundation was laid
           in the late eighties
and the rest was never finished.

Lattices of lumber
           with Tyvek siding;

wedges of various synthetics.

Small intestine pipework,
           endocrine heating vents;

nervous system haywire sparks
chirping and fraying at night.

I shower underneath
           the incessant leak
of wheezing aluminum bellows.

           I sleep on a mattress
of exposed rubber-brass springs

and wake each morning with new
surgeries embedded in my back.

           Loose screws manage
           through moccasin and foot.

Stalagmites of sawdust
           and asbestos residue.

A decapitated spinal staircase.

           I live in half –

Skate-rats and meth-heads
           commingle in my foyer.

Double-daring preteens,
indigent possums.

           The neighbors have seen
my every shameful angle

and the termites want me gone.

– a house.

           Folks often ask me
what I do when it rains.

           But what can I say?

                       I get wet.

This poem was originally published in Sequestrum.