The back door sticks. Lift, then turn.
The cat is a liar about having been fed.
The third stair complains. Let it.
Everything in this house has earned a complaint.
If the phone rings after nine it is my mother.
Tell her I am well. Tell her twice.
Water the fern that looks dead. It is not dead.
It is only doing what I do in February.
This a fake test poem created by First Verse - it will be deleted at launch
