His mind was as decontrolled
As he wanted his apartments to be.
His thoughts—the landlord's—went every which way
And none of them pleasing.
His son was no pleasure.
His wife was a dreary problem.
He was no bargain to himself, either.
It was only when he was fighting tenants
That he got some life.
Then he was a battleship with all its guns a-blazing.
Or he was a crafty, swift canoe gliding down the waters
of plans for himself.
Otherwise, the landlord was a wreck.
God bless tenants who can bring an interest in life to an
otherwise apathetic landlord.
From The Right of Aesthetic Realism to Be Known, #320
© 1961 by Eli
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