Glass Poetry Press

Volume One Issue Two

Michael Keshigian


The tenants left him a bar of soap, two rolls of toilet paper, shredded paper towels, and a ripped sponge mop with bucket. He tried to rub the white wall clean, discovered it was impossible, realized they had tried as well. He decided to paint it over. Hair choked the bathroom sink, long hairs, male and female, they both wore ponytails, short of acid, nothing else would work. The hardwood floor wore rubber scuffs and high heel turns, no doubt they had danced and laughed, but only a broom had swept it clean. He began to know who they were, seldom did he speak to them, the check always arrived in the mail. They breezed through, a great wind, leaving behind a trail of dirt, a thank you of sorts, the residual continuity of broken leases and painstaking interviews. He seized their soap, a green veined, marbled bar, curved like a woman, took a bath after he cleaned the tub, and dried with no towel, in the air with the walls and floors.