Developments

That summer everything smacked 

of tax write-off—men came to unslump

the sunstruck fence, rolled tarp-grey

carpet down the hall, but left 

the wasp nests that hung like black bells 

by the back door. We’d never seen 

the landlord’s face but knew he meant 

to raise the rent. Most nights we debated 

in the fanless bedroom: move, loan, tiny 

home. Then, as February torched 

our nerves, came his offer: six-month lease, 

no option to extend. Next door’s spaniel

napped in its kennel with ducted AC. 

Across the road they drafted luxe revisions 

to Le Corbusier’s machines, earmarked 

kerbs for metered parking. They winched 

in eco-glazing the day we conceded 

our signatures to the digital lease: enough 

to keep the place a few more weeks.