When he came I asked
in surprise: What are
you
doing here, and he
replied with a low-pitched
growl; more a teddy
than a fierce animal. I poured water
in a bowl for him, but
all he wanted was a cuddle, which is why
he travelled this far, he said, over
cities and fields, winging down
the East Coast in a metal bird.
You must be tired,
I said, still standing
aback. Shall I
make you a bed?
And you in it, he
whispered, his body
softening into a big pillow, and you in it.
But no, I wave away
the thought ; he shall never
come. All the poems
in the world, but he shall never come.
