Dear Landlord:

Yes, it’s true, I uprooted the toilet

by dancing on top of it, naked,

as I used to do all the time but I forgot

how much fatter I am since I moved here—

I’m so sorry. Also, I stuck my hand into the tank

and fished around for that thing, you know, the thing

that makes the toilet flush, and removed it. Why not?

For the past month, I’ve been bringing cockroaches

into the building in jars, releasing them in my kitchen

for my amusement and that of my eighteen feral cats,

whom I’d give up, but you know

it gets so cold in here at night, I need something

to warm my bed as I lie thinking up creative ways

to dispose of trash to get your attention.

The truth is, landlord, I’ve missed your face—

you see, I have no father of my own,

and no boyfriend; all those guys coming in and out,

day and night, with bikes are just my drug dealers. So

when I stand outside in the rain and pretend

that there is something wrong with the front door

and I can’t open it, I ring your bell

only because I want, after a hard day, to come home

to a musty-smelling man who calls me baby.