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afraid not

Daniel Wheatley

monster’s grown a beard
since i last saw him
    ( twenty years ago;
          fat on bedshadows
          and old-house creaks. )

i invites him for coffee,
but he refuses. all he wants
   is some nighttime to wash himself,
   maybe a corner of dust to sleep inside.

( sorry, old friend. i’ve only got lamps
          and sterile lemon scent at home. )

  here: a peanut butter sandwich.
                    maybe i’m allergic.