the boarder

he wakes
up to

the alarm of heavy shoes leaving
the boarding
house
stirs him from a feather bed,

his door ajar,
the wood warped around the frame.

it's a ship
of a house, going slowly down.

local
oak and timber.
from the 1800's.

somebody once lived here,
the house keeper
tells me

as I pull down the scales of
wallpaper
off dust laden walls.

the boarder, in his room
for seven
years

comes out.
says hey in passing.

he looks like a man who owns
more than one
gun.

a cigarette, a beer in hand.
he wanders into
the tight kitchen,

fixes himself eggs and sausage
on the common
griddle.

he uses the back staircase
when he's done.

I won't see him again.
the rent
three months overdue.