Slipping in through the blinds
riding a sliver of moonlight like
the evil twin of the Silver Surfer
he’s already landed on the edge
of the bed and is droning on
even before I am fully awake.
Like a sad old drunk, his stories
circle around themselves in
ever-tightening spirals that
seem to demand an answer.
There is none. I must noodle
around on the guitar or read
something in Spanish to try
and make him drowsy. My wife
suddenly wants to move, which
is probably the reason he
showed up tonight, and that
might not be so bad if I knew
he couldn’t get the new address.