Apartment Living

POETRY

by Susana H. Case

One of my friendlier neighbors was unaware 
of his brain tumor until after he collapsed 
in our lobby. He lived but lost 

his sharp sense of humor and no longer 
told stories with twisty plots or walked his dog. 
Soon his big, woolly beast grew old 

and disappeared, and then he disappeared. 
Many more have gone, new people 
moving in, hot pink Piece of Cake trucks— 

NYC headquartered—parked outside all day, 
mats spread on the entrance floor and chairs 
lined up in front of the freight elevator. 

Eleven times I’ve moved in my life, but it’s cozy
here with my flowery wallpapers 
and muted Persian carpets. I intend to stay, 

which means someday they’ll carry me out, too,
a notice about me framed on the desk next to 
the intercom for a week, people wondering, 

which one was she? And a couple, inspecting
my apartment, up for sale, agreeing, Well this 
won’t do—we’ll have to change everything.