Daniel Wheatley lives quietly in the roar of D.C. He maintains grammatarium.com, where he chronicles his
excursions and never-ending quest for truly terrible coffee.
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.