We meet for the first time in unmade sheets
when half asleep he says
he dreams he is a seabird,
flying through the night.
He steals in on thieves feet after midnight.
Sleep eludes me. I hear
the pause outside and ragged sigh
before reluctant key turns to lock.
The finality of the closed door.
In the dark he fumbles at the window
Perhaps to let out some of the sad and hostile air.
When day and obligations call me
he still sleeps
upright in the apricot armchair
poised gazing at the train tracks
tangled like the suit jacket discarded at his feet.
Some things are inadequate;
trying to describe the way a passing train smells like a burnt out match
how your girlfriend drives barefoot
to feel the pedal under her crooked pinkie toe
how the small of a stranger’s back peeks out from between his jeans and his t-shirt
when he rides his Peugot down Bloor (goodbye)