Peace came dressed like a census taker
clipboard in hand, mild mannered
asking who still lives here
and in what condition.
It smelled of sunscreen and burnt coffee
and Febreze
And shuffled awkwardly on the welcome mat in mismatched shoes.
But—we’re not supposed
to talk to strangers or salesmen
And so we closed the door.
Later, when Peace turned up again—
It apologized for its mussed hair and secondhand clothes
the headlines etched over the clown makeup and stubble
wet from tidying in a gas station men’s room.
“I used to live here,” Peace explained.
“Can I come in? See my old room?
Have a glass of water, maybe use the phone?”
A wing-tipped toe inched over the weatherstripping.
But—we know about vampires and death
and multi-level marketing
And we closed the door.
Later—Peace planted its ass on our stoop and sobbed
From gloaming to gloom, embarrassing and loud
Neighbors turned off their porch lights
His bony shoulders shook.
Oh, Peace, that damn old drunk, we asked—
Who do we call? Should we get you a cab?
Come inside, have some water, use the phone.
But all Peace wanted now was to borrow a shovel.
Can’t remember exactly but—
We were watching reruns on the news
And Hope, who clearly doesn’t know the rules
finally snuck Peace in through the side screen door.
And they drank all the wine and danced, and told lame jokes
And now Peace just crashes on our couch
pretty much whenever.
Because Hope says Peace is welcome
Doesn’t need an invite or even a key
And it’s been so long now it’s hard to recall
The last time the world flinched.
Daedalus Howell is at dhowell.com.
