This earth feels like someone else's house to me,
Like living in a goddamn parsonage,
Or staying in friend's house, who's away,
To take care of her turtle and her cat.

I pray that nothing breaks while she is gone,
Like the flapper on the toilet,
Or that squeaky hinge the backdoor hangs on.

I tiptoe around while I am here,
And the earth talks back to me
In an irritated whisper,
"Don't waste any ice,
Or toilet paper."

-jenn