Renting Alone

I don’t hoover

every web

between the kitchen

and the back door.

Jeff hangs

between radiator

and washing machine,

hammock-bound, tiny headphones,

reggae drifting off him

like wacky-backy smoke.

Geoff claims

the top of the door,

sun catching him

now and then,

slipping away

the moment you notice.

Not-Jeff-or-Geoff—

Not-JGeoff for short—

skits across the windows,

checks the rent,

scurries when I look,

even though I’m renting too.

Still, he climbs

close enough to the ceiling

to think he’s made it.

Mi casa, su casa,

I say,

lighting a cigarette.