He lounges next to me at breakfast as I stare at
a glass bowl of cinnamon raisin oatmeal.
He’s waiting for the mathematical equation of
hunger plus thirst divided by sleep
equaling congruent fragmentation of the brain
to surge into attack of my arterial passage,
leading the way, quietly, into a revolution of nerves.
At lunch I feel him breathing hard, laughing,
quite erotically, as the sun decides to overlook me
within a crowd of coffee addicted students.
He pokes his fleshy fingers at me, crossing my eyes,
making me see all sides of the parallelogram,
until my vision ripples into three dimensions.
Dinner at eight thirty, Solitude becomes three
irrational and compulsive characters:
my guests of honor. Wise men traveling from
the corners of his imagination, I become
their hostess and entertainer. He thrusts
the threads of creativity into captivity.
I try to leave him, but he follows
attached to the weight of my ankles,
the pressure of my chest, the blur of my eyes.
I ask him why he bothers stalking me,
we both know he’s not wanted here,
but he remains silent, tapping his toes.