The Schizophrenic Tenant by Sean Hill

Mr. Landlord...horde...harpsichord

I have a couple of

complaints. I’ve

hive...alive...thrive...deprive

been feeling faint. I think

there’s

heirs...fares...chairs...scares

a gas leak in my flat. The

stove may blow up

cup...hiccup...stick-up

or I may pass out—asphyxiation. Of course

not

hot...cot...nasal bot

I don’t think you’re trying to

kill me

spree...skeleton key...daily.

I’ve been feeling sick—head

cold like something

ping...bing...string...sting

crawling around in my

sinuses. I’d much appreciate

hate...fate...procrastinate

it if you could fix the window

cracks

blacks...backs...attacks

and the roof leaks. And when

I’m on the shitter I

think the flicker of the fluorescent light

might induce a stroboscopic epileptic seizure.

Lastly at night a security light outside

rip tide...homicide...confide

would be nice.