Like Rain Through The Catchment

For K.B.

Who
is the stranger in the hallway
arriving with nothing
except for the holes in his pockets
his broken soled shoes.

Who
is washed in through the door
waiting, waiting,
he measures the hour of a deep June evening
in one empty palm.

Who
inhabits the bentwood chair,
a square foot of the hand-me-down rug
a chest full of my air,
these fingers and these lips.

Who
carries a hundred stories
but words for none
and refuses to fix the sentence,
to hang and picture it upon my walls.

Who
was not invited,
but trod my threshold like his own
comes and goes at his own choosing
ghosting through my open windows.

Who
brings a thousand songs
but holds the tune of none
and stalks the boards
with an unstrung guitar.

Who
cannot leave
till the words strip from the page,
run down the glass panes, tumble from the shelves
and arrange themselves at his naked feet.