by Robin Richardson
With slant-eyes, beards and breakable
demeanors they will claim the dust,
sheets, pleated dress, the furnace that
mutters grumpy where I sleep.
Their boots will take the hardwood,
blue clamp of conversation while
I pour myself a drink. The books
will stack self-conscious, spines
will arch and fingers aim to slink
across the grind. They will pine
for morning toast, dalliance
of daylight at the sill; Its coming
and going and showing up the quiet
with a cricket-fiddle; stark and hardy.
They will echo in the hallway, stay
a sliver on the rocks-glass. They will
want the writing, haunt the paper
with their harks and clever inching
inward. They will lift the covers, cull
the frantic musing with their firmness.
They will take my island.
