Garden-Apartment Squatter

Tired of chronic dread,
Of wind and weather,
Years of exposure,

He felt blissed to find
A trick to hiding
To shelter himself—

At risk, to be sure,
Of being a mouse,
Obliteration

At the end of time
In a dark tunnel—
Still, peace for a while.

He’d found a small crack
In a weary skull
And crawled in to squat

In the shelf cellar
Of the owner’s drab
But large subconscious.

That unconscious mind
Surrounding him then
Felt dimly spacious,

Thin light from casements,
And, mercifully,
No trash or tchotchkes

Left by some former
Occupant. In fact,
He doubted there’d been

Any occupant.
Why can’t a mind, like
Many homes, contain

A serviceable
But unused basement?
Upstairs, he could hear

Decisions being
Made, conversations,
Loud entertainments,

But under the warmth
Of the well-built self,
He felt free to think,

So long as he kept
His thoughts to himself.
The only time he was

Ever nervous was
When he sensed those thoughts
Paused on the steps, tensed

And listening for
Him, or whatever
Shadow he could be,

As he tensed himself
And listened to them
Uncertain of him.