The treasure is under the trash bags,
perhaps even inside, lost beneath piles
and piles of shit.
Not useless junk or leftovers no body
actual shit, the pieces your body
The floorboards creak, mistreated
like an abused bride on the honeymoon,
by the occupant’s
Stained, structurally unsound, like a universe
made from a fresh bowel movement, the house
must come down.
It cannot stand as a monument, a sacred
sanctum, of these profane bodily fluids.
Your sanctuary must be torched
and the ashes must be scattered
for fear that it will reassemble.