Prayer to the God of Landlords

Bless his half-empty head,
his hand that held
the Phillips screwdriver
he lost in my yard
behind the hedge.

Bless the way he topped the trees,
the way he wanted them to be
perfect Grant Wood blow-pops.
Each day they show him sorrow:
peeling, sawed-off trunks,
severed necks above.

And bless the sound of his footsteps
on the ceiling at three a.m.,
the distant hiss of water, sounds
of him home from a trip
I’m sure went badly—traffic
and insolent weather,
forgotten skis and a flat
on Donner Pass—
but bless him anyway, home,
his gentle thumps of night,
the trail of creaks
leading off to his safe,
unmade bed.