Mira Rosenthal

Sublet, Pay-Later System

Everyone and their mother wants to extend us
credit, though we have no collateral, save

deposits made of late into the tremendous
sorrow bank where the walls seem to duplicate

rows, columns, keyholes begging for felonious
picking, so I can’t toss the glossy offers straight

into the garbage, lest someone thus and thus
root through to procure the place, the date,

the so-and-so that give away what we call
identity—no, I have to strip the very essence

of each form, displace the digits, tear to shreds
any semblance of a name before I ball

it all up and deposit it with the swarming ants.
Only then can we rest in our plywood bed.