He shows up without invitation

and over or under shares

as he sees fit

 

I don’t complain,

happy for the company

despite his mothball smell 

and unkempt robes

 

He sits silently, heavily, into my favorite chair

shedding dead skin

that will mingle with mine

and become the dust

in the air that I breath

 

Some days,

when I’ve not seen him for weeks,

he will arrive carrying a bowl filled with fruit

most of it rotten

but some of it not

 

and I greedily eat it all,

the putrid and the sweet

licking the filthy bowl

with my lizard tongue

my eyes fixed on his

my belly swollen yet still growling for more

Then he rises, silently scornful

I yell towards his impossibly stooped, retreating back

“I’m still hungry!”

He never turns, but I am certain that he hears me