Prayer to the God of Landlords

Bless his half-empty head,

his hand that held

the Phillips screwdriver

he lost in my yard

behind the hedge.

I found it, set it

on his steps upstairs. By then

he’d bought two more,

left one rusting

on the driveway.

Bless the way he topped the trees,

the way he wanted them to be

perfect Grant Wood blow-pops, green

as lime Jell-O. But they

don’t grow that way. Each day

they show him sorrow: peeling,

sawed-off trunks, new growth

hairing out at the shoulders,

severed necks above.

Bless the sound of his footsteps

on the ceiling at one a.m.,

the distant hiss of water, sounds

of him home from a trip

I’m sure went badly—traffic

and insolent weather,

forgotten skis and a flat

on Donner Pass—

but bless him anyway, home,

his gentle thumps of night,

the trail of creaks

leading off to his safe,

unmade bed.                               

Amy Miller