Trespasser
       

The man who lived under my garage
broke into the storage space, replaced
my lock with his own to doze beside
the woodpile in an orange sleeping bag
with a blue sheet, his head resting
on a dirty pillow. He ate saltines,
drank beer, and read The Scarecrow, Mercy,
Hell's Corner, The Scarpetta Factor
and The Magick of Sex. When he rose
he put on black boots, cracked and crusty,
and a tattered backpack to sell
Street Spirit and panhandle near Safeway.

I changed the lock and left his things outside
in four large trash bags and two crates
with notes asking him to take them away.
Of course, he never did. But he came back,
easily picked the lock to my dreams
to drift past rocky islands in a red canoe
with no paddles, his shattered reflection
wavering on green water, and stand
beneath a giant poison mushroom
for protection from rain as I worried
where he slept now and watched him
step from the black-and-white world
of an old film into rainbow flames.

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Copyright © 2021 Lucille Lang Day All rights reserved
from Birds of San Pancho and Other Poems of Place
Blue Light Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission