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The Boarder
—Jackson, Mississippi
Porcupine eggs and cans of beer lay scattered
on the ground or hung attached by hooks
from the chair's armrest, sweating in the heat.
That's where I found Paul, peering outward
from the mound of dirt he piled years before,
the railway car I mounted in the yard
looming over his shoulder like an officer.
"Water's out," he coughed as I approached.
"The gas's been cut." I went around and looked.
"I done called and cussed the company out. . . ."
The knot on his throat was large, a baby's fist.
I sat up tonight, hearing him bang about,
scrounging the fridge for food, and thought
how I once uncovered in a pile of papers
in a corner of the living room we shared
a Polaroid of Paul, flat on his stomach,
his arms around a dog he said had died
of worms a few months back.--Now, only
the thump of his feet in the foyer, and the door
rocking on its hinges, letting in mosquitoes.
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