In the midst of my modest wealth and ability to spend,
it sets in, taking the comfortable chair,
the chaise with the button-backed cushions,
and frames its face by the window's changeable sunlight
while I'm in the thick of wondering
by whose invitation it comes by.
No one could arrange more awkward stay,
a visitant whose not-so-veiled requests
come on as knuckle cuffs, gloved punches,
asking if another wine or fruit be served,
no one other than me, the host, to fetch,
nothing but 'just do', to handle the appetite.
If I were dreaming, this would pass on through,
be gone like an intrusive aunt or a workman
saving travel hours by sleeping in my garage,
my habits thrown to a corner for just that while,
all that I've grown to expect so disarranged like hair
but able yet to be combed -- if only I were dreaming this.