There once was a man who lived in a house
with four doorways and a dark room for the cheesecake
between a flyscreen to the rear and someone else’s bedroom
and the cistern that screeched like a banshee in the night
he never seemed to mind the sign on his lot
yet could never spare a word for his neighbours
only, “Fuck off”.
and something dirty muttered in a dialect
until the servant of his dreams crashed
and the unhomely became this man’s king
Then the dead roses and the willy-wagtails by moonlight
eggless
but free range none the less
were laid in feathered nests
which he would go out to inspect
each day with a nervous edginess to his demeanour
	he felt the rupture of delight
backdrafted by this settling of the score
	inflamed by night he breathed in more
tasted salt from bleeding gums
which he took as a sign
which he took as a song
but before long the willy-wagtails had left the feathered nest
        and there only remained
a note the shape of a bowl
that shaped his past
like it had shaped his house
“there are no accidents,” the note conjectured,
	and went on “only sign of unconscious exposition…”
her signature burned
	trespassing the tallow flame
	branding him 'other'