exclusive to bobjudeferrante.com
To my heart came a
guest, who knocked.
Surprised, I received him.
He hung rags in the closet and
banged mud from his boots
in the fireplace.
I offered him dinner.
He ate my favorite dish.
Two portions. Left me none.
I offered my bed and
slept by the hearth.
All night I stared at the
mud, hard pieces. I slept
poorly, the sun rose too soon.
A thousand mornings passed. Yesterday
he pushed me into a corner
and sent me to sleep in the yard, saying,
“You no longer please me.”
It was still early Spring chill.
I shivered until daybreak.
Now he is buried under the
onion garden.
(the onions come in poorly.)