Corners of rooms

He sits in the corner of any room you enter, with a black bowler hat pulled over his eyes and grey overcoat drooping down to the floorboards. He holds a cane in his hand.

Careful, he’ll call you over if you come too close. He doesn’t like being alone, for it is much easier to sleep through a wedding if others are doing so too.

He likes to hide his shadow in yours if you ever walk in a park, which is easy for him, with a body emaciated like the men on a crucifix.

When things seem coldest, the cold attacks from within. A virus of farenheit, blue ice in one’s veins. This is when he comes with a jumper

and a smile with fake teeth. The jumper will smell like decrepit car air-freshener,

and he tells you to keep it free of charge - that’s what friends are for.

But the jumper is heartless, and it only makes you colder. Like an ersatz smile, like feigned attention.

But you’ve taken it now, it really is so easy. I don’t blame you. After all, he sits in the corner of every room you enter. And eventually

you spark up a conversation. Just don’t talk of love, for his stare will come back blank.

Don’t mention mountain hiking, for he’s never been above sea level.

In fact, don’t mention anything, for his whole life has been spent

sitting in corners

like a spider in its web. Like a rat who turns tail at the false sound of wind.

Like ballet shoes in closets, that in time find their way to the very back and bottom

and settle like dust and with dust and at end.