The Roommate

Joe lives under my bed.
He mumbles terribly.
I thought he was a ghost for years—
Always wailing and squawking.
He starts in around eleven
And goes for an hour and a half.
Sometimes he’ll do an encore.
I don’t sleep well.
Occasionally, he’ll just talk.
Typically, outdated, British politics.
Something about the Queen,
Take to the streets this and that.
All sorts of righteous vagaries.
But he’s so passionate
That I want to get involved.
I don’t sleep at all those nights.
I write Marxist pamphlets
On antique typewriters
And cut the sleeves off everything I own.
He preaches about the entrapments
Of money and the great corporate scheme.
I’ve called in sick to a lot of jobs.
I think he wants me to be poor.
What would he do if I lost my house?
Would he hang around for new tenants?
I like to think that we have a great rapport,
Although one sided.
I can’t imagine that anyone
Else would put up with him.
Especially if he just keeps lying
Where my bed was.
That must be awkward for the realtors.
Not a chance they could move him.
He’d eat a subpoena.
I’ve heard him eating worse.
I doubt they could move him by force.
He seems like the type who only goes when he’s ready.
Maybe he wants to move,
Try out a new floor, something carpeted,
But wants me to lead the way.
He comes off as kind of out there—
Lost in his own thoughts.
But I wouldn’t put a plan like this past him.
Maybe he’s screwing with me.
I’ve woken up to plenty of new haircuts:
Pompadours, too-wide mohawks, respectable trims.
I can’t say that he doesn’t have a sense of humor.
I hear him giggling down there plenty.
He smokes a lot of grass.
It’s not that bad, though.
I just light up a cigarette and crack a window.
At least he doesn’t leave
Corn chips and bongs all over.
Maybe Joe just likes to talk.