A Man in the House

She wonders
why I’m still here
so long after the wedding cake,
after the beach house,
 after the hand-in-hand shopping
for all those things that purr in the kitchen
like cats.
She seems curious
that there’s always this face
in the corner of her full-length mirror,
this form that spaniels her
from room to fresh-swept room,
this voice that’s always asking questions
instead of favours.
‘Who are you, really?’
The question flutters behind her eyes
but has never got past those firm lips;
so we still brush against each other in bed
and collide in front of the fridge.
She knows I have not cried
recently, that I probably pay the rent;
and now she begins to suspect me
of loitering
with intent…

from Interiors (Dangaroo Press. 1989), Mark McWatt 1989, used by permission of the author

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