He seems to come in like the leaves -
Blown in at the open window ...
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 hand.
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.