Clover

when you get to Regent street you’ll see the house It’s brick. The door is splintering off its hinges Welcome, there’s a grimy ceiling fan and flickering lights. There’s a lingering stench, a sweet rot, a sour stink The walls peel yellow, have a seat on the moldy patched sofa Clover’s hip leans perpetually on the kitchen counter adjacent to the room we sit in, she’s got a pale flabby face droopy like a hound that’s what she reminds me of I come here to look into the flaps of her face, into her beady eyes they always scream