Where We Live, version 2

A reconsideration of the last paragraph.

Eleven-thirty and I’m the first one up.

There’s still broken glass on the kitchen floor
from where a drink was dropped the night before.

The dog’s got his nose in the garbage bag again.

 

A half-full glass of milk sits on the counter.
How long since it congealed?

Got no clean dishes, 
an unfed turtle
and the leftover spring rolls.

 

No privacy.
Bathroom locks don’t fit right
or bolt tight.
You can hear the basement
conversations
from the bedrooms above.

 

The walls pulsate
with a million absorbed vibrations
of a badly-plucked bass guitar.
The floor creaks under old carpeting, 
wearing the remains of the cat’s winter coat.
The bedroom door’s bad hinges compel it to close
and the couch’s springs groan.

 

My life was such a mess
when we lived there.

But it was my mess,

and I deserved it.

I wish 

we had never left.

Author's Note

Only two lines different from the initial version. Does it make a difference? For better or worse?