the cinderblock room

i live in a cell of cinderblock
near the ocean
a long window spreads

open into the back yard
full of boxes, buckets and barrels
and if i stand flat footed

toes against the wall
i can reach the bottom
of the window with my chin 

and view 
the ground at eye level.

there are no flowers
just towers of containers
filled with parts, tools and scraps.

it’s a steal, i’m told, for
what you’re getting here
we could get a lot more money

than what you’ve been paying.
the parrot squawks all day long
and its owner screams back:

“shut up, fido! shut up!”
it’s claustrophobic here.

sometimes i feel like i’m buried
underground where the temperatures
stay cool all year round

and no one comes to visit
because there’s no place
to sit and get comfortable

unless we jump onto my 
bed and lean against the cool cinderblock wall.