Ode to Maybern Manor

My last apartment was the definition of old,

Leaky pipes, damaged ceilings, and traces of mold.

Mice thriving in the walls, nibbling their way through the brick,

Each unit with a working fireplace, built in 1906.

The original wood floors, perpetually dirty with debris,

Your footpads painted black, with you lifted your feet.

I, the longest tenant, stayed for nearly 18 years,

Too settled, too poor, to seek new frontiers.

Though in my twenties, this place was the ideal spot,

Cheap rent, no rules, the hallways reeking of pot.

In my thirties, hosting parties was still a blast,

My body a little older, a little slower, but trying to make the feeling last.

As time wore on, and that desire long past,

All I wanted now was working hot water, and I wanted it fast.

The exposed brick, one of many bohemian selling features,

Was now a nuisance, the home to a hundred rodent creatures.

My unit was sweltering in the summer, in the winter a frozen hell,

During that one summer’s heat-wave, I moved to a hotel!

But being on the top floor certainly had its perks.

A view of the inlet and the annual fireworks.

A real hidden gem, if you could look past the pests,

When it came to the rules, this place was the wild west.

You could get away with murder, the landlord didn’t care,

I’m pretty sure someone even died downstairs!

This place was once of a kind, with character to boast,

Of all the places I’ve lived, it certainly stands out the most.

Clearing out my apartment, it looks so hollow and sad,

I walk down the long staircase and think of memories I’ve had.

I linger on each floor, listening to the voices chattering inside,

Goodbye Maybern Manor, it’s been one hell of a ride.

Since I moved out, three years have gone by

I still sometimes see phantom mice out of corner of my eye,

It’s funny to spend so long in a place you both love and hate

Like going to a really good party, but staying too late 

*It seems so hard to leave, until you actually leave

Then there’s no trace of regret, no sense of grief

To think how, at one time, that place was my entire universe

Moving out felt impossible, but staying behind seemed worse

How quickly we can confuse two, Confinement and Content

To tell ourselves to be grateful, we have regulated rent

I think this city does that to you, makes you dread the unknown

Yeah, Vancouver is a weird place, yet somehow, it’s still home.