me lying on the deck. not smoking. not drunk. not even high.
listening for a knock on the door by the ‘One’ -;
the thumping of socked feet on carpeted stairs shake the wooden
deck — men picking up their coats, their glasses,,
one a silver walking stick, another engraved car keys,
more leaving, most bandaged, all unknown, but all, yes:
all parting. i don’t want them to
bother me = they know the door
they came through.
they never cease to go; they always do; they never enter,
only bid adieu; never do I see them clamber into basement windows,
or climb pipes, or lie down centimeters away counting cracks on ceilings-
a bedface captured.
they all fucking do that indoors — but the end of August brings
the ravin’ rak-en-roll across the road…or smell of silt…or screaming neighbors
or predestiny in the starred night; as the One yondering towards
maybe he won’t come: maybe not tonight