He seems to come in like the leaves –
Blown in at the open window,
And always on a light and airy day.
Never in stormy weather.
And always, I’ve noticed,
At an inconvenient time –
Right in the middle of the washing.
He looks at me and shows me these holes in his hands.
And, well, I can see them in his feet.
‘Not again,’ I say.
‘Please don’t stand there bleeding
All over the kitchen floor.’
Sometimes he comes softly, sadly,
At night – close, by the side of my bed –
Sometimes I latch the door –
But he never goes away.