Death Barged In
In his Russian greatcoat,
slamming
open the door
with an unpardonable bang,
and he has been
here ever since.
He changes everything,
rearranges
the furniture,
his hand hovers
by the phone;
he will
answer now, he says;
he will be the answer.
Tonight he sits down to dinner
at
the head of the table
as we eat, mute;
later, he climbs into
bed
between us.
Even as I sit here,
he stands
behind me
clamping two
colossal hands on my shoulders
and bends down
and whispers to my neck:
From now on,
you write about me.