Mr Grenway

by

A lodger
of mysterious trade
has inhabited
the attic
in my head.
 
He plays
swing music
on tuesday evenings
and waltzes, just to
wake the dead.
 
A man
of rigorous,
decorous, satin grace;
he deposits leaves
in library books.
 
He visits
the woman in
apartment 42, who
keeps my scarves, and
dreams on hooks.
 
He sings
through the
floorboards, but
hasn’t paid his rent
in 16 weeks.
 
He never
complains about
the dripping thoughts that tap,
through thick-taped
brain leaks.
 
He whispers
into pianos
at half-midnight (but,
never quite keeps
me awake).