Ode to a House Guest

by Sean Porterfield

​

I opened the door.

You assumed it

was an

invitation

to stay and eat

and drink my wine.

​

A week

of revelry followed.

It was unforgettable.

I’ve never seen anyone

so horny for cheese

in all my life.

You glutton.

I have to admit

I admired the way

you careened so recklessly

into strings of mozzarella

like a Kamikaze

with a deathwish.

​

You certainly have a taste

for theatrics,

and for danger,

and for drowning in pools

of pancake syrup left behind on plates.

Et tu, muscus?

When I pulled you out

of my glass of merlot

with a fork

I knew

you were either

drunk or dead,

or had discovered

my copy of Julius Caesar.

​

After a week

you learned to hate leftovers

as much as I do.

Lost, in more ways than one,

you grew weary

of buzzing around my head

while I watched

The Real Housewives of Las Vegas,

(you’ll keep secrets)

and while I dreamed about—

well, nevermind.

After dodging my hand

for the hundredth time,

you gave up the dream

deciding:

Enough Is Enough.

​

You searched—

frantically, I might add,

for an EXIT.

Since you are pin-headed,

you tried everything:

the skylight,

the fireplace,

even the washing machine,

but you do not recognize

an open door

when it is staring you in

the antennae.

Yet now,

here you are—

oh

so

close

to Freedom.

​

All you have to do is give in—

sense the light of day

and the heat of summer.

Will you? I wonder,

watching you dance

unknowing along the doorframe,

jumping—

​

hopefully, cautiously,

on your way, to the outside—