The People in My House

Too many people walk in and out of my house

Sometimes it’s hard to keep up

With their steps

And switching on-off of the lights

They track dirt on the scrubbed floors

And leave scratches on the wall

And borrow my clothes and never give them back

(it doesn’t matter – there’s hundreds where those came from)

On Sundays they hold mass in my living room

On Mondays they set up grey office desks around mine

A fortress around my warm-wood, fairy-box, happy-place

And take their conference calls

And meet my eyes

For no reason at all


On Tuesdays he looks out through the window to catch a glimpse of That Man. It’s not a tall man he looks at; neither is it a short one. Every week That Man comes by, pulls his thick coat around him, turns his head to the front door – and stares. He’s never figured out why.

On Tuesdays he starts taking an extra pill, hoping it somehow makes That Man go away – or come closer. He likes to clarify things, see? He likes his files organized properly into their pigeon hole, in alphabetical order, with colour-coding. But even with that pill he can’t magic That Man into oblivion or make him come up and knock at his door.

On Tuesdays he starts opening the window and hollering downwards in his best drill sergeant voice (a voice he can’t remember the origin of). He tells the man, at times, to come in, and at other times, to fuck off. The words are dry on his tongue and drier on the man’s face. That Man’s reactions vary from the fond (a quirk of the lip, does he know That Man?), to the annoyed (slight scowl, folding the arms – does That Man know him?) and to the despairing.

(Bags under his eyes, a forlorn gaze with irises the black of tar)

On Tuesdays, he watches from his house and wonders and looks. He never finds.