Rentals have no grandchildren
to attend creaks and drips, so long
as the skeleton walls stand the house is self
sufficient. The entryway wall weeps
where the neighbour's chimney
has crumbled in disrepair—bricks sprouting
a wig of weeds, terraced gutters
clogged with a thin hairline of grass.
 
Ivy creeps under the windowsill,
into the bedroom an encroaching strand
unwelcome as newly sprouted ear-hairs,
signs of time. Fungus blossoms
a dark Rorschach test above the bed
where the ceiling is befuddled
under an exposed attic,
to be covered in magnolia emulsion
upon tenant complaint.
 
Nothing to be done for the skirting board
cracked in the cold kitchen,
away from the warped wall where paint flakes
to dandruff on the yellowing linoleum.
Cosmetic concerns, you get what you pay for.
These old homes come with cracks and damp.
Not to mention those footstep sounds, the settling,
pipes clanging for attention.