The Donning and Doffing of Weekly Apartments

It's as good a place as any
to churn up my stomach
at the end of a shift.
Horrid wallpaper
nail-holed wood paneling
and peeling linoleum
help see to that.
The claustrophobic choke
of their dreary earth tones
are aided by the poorly installed
drop-ceiling, its tiles of three types.
Thumbtacks hold
the curtains back
and staples fasten signs
to walls in the kitchen
reminding me when to leave
and not to smoke.
God forbid an outlet's grounded
or any lumber leveled, squared.
There's a clock on the wall ticking away
precious seconds of my life
though none of its three hands
see me worth their movement--
a metronome, a cadence, a soundtrack
to the madness that shall undoubtedly ensue
with or without the presence of poison.

If anything matches it's a coincidence
possibly a blunder. The couch's burlap fabric
could probably rub off skin, though I wouldn't know
for certain since I haven't felt the need.
I'll assume the boob-tube works sans disturbing
dusty buttons. There are far more
fitting ways to rot what's left of brain cells.
If one rides on the porcelain
he risks his sliding forward as a draft comes
through the molding to laugh and taunt at feet.
Doors of cabinets won't close
and a sadist did the paint job. Still
I'll call this home until it's time for me
to leave.

"The bed, man! The mattress! What of its
ancient springs? Surely the blanket
is moth-eaten and the sheets are stained
with strangers' blood."

I tell you, friend, I can't complain.
I sleep like a lamb amongst lions
so long as that balled-up tank top
which I've never worn
emits its fragrant magic
from the altar erected
of a pillowcase as fair
as her tenderest of skin
which I, once this job ends
will be privy to again
unlike the jealous sun.