--- D A V I D   G R A H A M

All night he scuffles bedroom to bathroom to pantry,
searches the faces on the refrigerator,
pill schedules and emergency numbers.
Shuffles on big careful feet to the sink,
where a notepad gives him his daughter's name,
who is here for a visit.  Midnight.  He shakes
the door locks.  Grabs a cookie, perhaps.
One o'clock.  Swivels the thermostat to ninety.
One-thirty.  Adds a log to the wood stove.
Runs water, then leaves it going while he looks
in the den for a glass.  Two a.m.  Three.

Each night some minor surrealism:
Sofa cushions jammed in the closet, maybe,                    
or jumper cables in the tub soaking.
On top of the TV, like dried flowers,
a wineglass full of nails.  Whatever he seeks
isn't here anymore, yet he paces
like a prisoner, still aimed and active.

These nightly wanderings must be all inkling,
all shadow and itch.  Every morning he announces
it's time to head home.  Now, though, he just
unplugs a couple lamps.  Shelves a book backwards.                             
Scuffs to the door to check the locks again.