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Deborah Blakely 






Poem for my First Apartment





God bless hunger

and the too hot street with no parking, and

the neighbor who always lets me in the bar

on the corner of Highland and Franklin Avenues.


God bless punk and plaid,

skinny boys and chlorine bleach


and you, under my window

calling Rapunzel, Rapunzel,



raccoon rattling trashcans

and roommates.


And God bless the futon couch,


the glass table

littered with straws, oh God--


I mostly thank you

for youthful oblivion.


For rotten Sundays

and thrift stores,

needles, scissors, safety pins,


nitrous oxide

dreams, and 

things that can be stitched back together.


God bless poverty,

hair-do’s, Kerouac,

my first tax return,

noise complaints



too much sex--

my mattress on the floor--


the empty kitchen

and food that needs no refrigeration.


God bless pool parties and urban wildlife.

God bless the landlord who leaves me a refrigerator.







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