by Rachel Glass

Always late, he slips into the room
in shadow fancy dress.
He grips a pint glass like a pen
and a notebook like a

He is all beard and walking art,
his hands stained with bright colours.
Tall, he sees life differently,
paints his words every shade of

He smiles from the back of the room,
keeps his gaze behind his glasses,
maps out the conversation in front of him,
stays quiet, his voice box cluttered with

When someone says Hello,
he quietly mumbles a metaphor,
strips off the shadow,
becomes a talking

I wonder about his home:
top floor of the tallest skyscraper,
tasting clouds every morning.

Second hand furniture,
bare walls and cramped bookshelves;
decor is not his forte.

A child at heart,
he plays forts with discarded
DVDs and dog-eared books.

He does not use cologne.
Instead, his daily ten cups of coffee
make him smell like morning.

I do not know if someone
occupies the other side of his bed.
But it does not matter.
His home will always be cluttered
and his poetry will always be honest.