The Snake

There is a snake in my walls

every night he silently slithers some small slice, sta scendendo

I hate the metaphor, yet it defines me

When I sleep, he whispers into my ear

he tells me that I live for a reason

that tomorrow something absurd will happen, and I will stare in in the face like, well

He tells me of his brother, he hates his brother

His brother doesn’t think he is really a snake

He says that real snakes eat mice and corrupt, he stops, love, women.

He says that real snakes wouldn’t spend their time dreaming, but would focus on

now

There is a snake in my walls

every morning he watches me carelessly drop an apple in my backpack

When I don’t, he screams, it doesn’t make sense, but snakes can’t scream, he doesn’t like it when I tell him that.

What a gift, the snake thinks, it was something his brother said, he just repeats, scale over scale

Little does he know, it is a stereotype, everyone stares at me, an apple? really?

What can I say, it comes with the job.

I laugh

The snake in my walls laugh

the maintenance man cries, his dog died, but I called 311

The snake cries. I remind it that snakes cry.

He turns indignantly.

Goodbye.

But the next day, the snake is still there. I made it up, I,

lied

The snake’s brother would visit, but the wall is just so cramped

The snake wants to a professional painter, I tell him he is doing good work on my walls, he has a chance

I lied

The snake returns the favor.

I wish he didn’t

He tells me that one day I will stop eating apples

When I leave the snake each morning

I lean in, and whisper that, when my lease ends, he will be a painter, and I will stop eating apples

He looks me in the eyes, I remind him that snakes don’t have eyes

He tells me that I will never leave him, that we will be together forever. He loves

me.