This Isn't a Boarding House

This isn’t a boarding house;

it’s hell with cubicles.

The carpet is vacuumed daily,

for health and hygiene,

but the smell of tedium never fades.

And lights out is always too early.

The air conditioner hums ceaselessly;

the air chilled to a crisp in summer,

and caked dry in winter.

But hell is always clogged

with clothing and chatter and sickle deodorant.

Some of us try to gloss our kennels

with pretty doonas and posters and ribbons.

Succeeding only in painting everything

another shade of bland.

We graffiti, and mark our place:

“Caz luvs Emi ‘02”

The offenders survived Hell,

but will I?

Written by the green glow of an exit light at 12.30pm, after another long night in the boarding house.