needle felt and animal skins,
love letters and drawings
of you and your coyote
taped to the wall above your desk.

i sit on the opened futon,
the whirring of the fan blowing
past me and out the window
into the boston summer night.

i listen to the footsteps, the cars,
the screeching brakes of a train,
and i think of just slipping out now,
before the sun comes up again.

i am a guest in your guest bedroom
but i do not belong here,
with my sadness and my ugliness,
and my saying the wrong things.

you and your coyote
have made yourselves such a beautiful home;
i will only ever mess it up
like all the beautiful things i've ever known.

(© 2014 Cassander)