Of Lodging Pro Tempore
Jen Pezzo
The rickety stairs
of rotting wood
and splintered
worm holes led up
the side of the
general store to
our new apartment.
There was no
carpet, no shower,
and the tub was
broken, rust stained.
We kept our milk
cold in the winter
snow that gathered
on the stoop.
A table yellowish
with metal legs,
rips in the vinyl
surface and three
matching chairs sat
by the door. Each
day we ate pop tarts
and oatmeal, took
baths in the kitchen
sink’s tepid water.
The living room
reeked of dog shit
and urine. News-
papers lay scattered
on the floor, left
there by previous
tenants who bailed
on the rent, just as
we planned to do.
Pro tempore lodging
became an enduring
childhood memory.
