Mr. Morris

Mr. Morris

Mr. Morris was a tenant

in my house, and a friend.

He wore the night

on his skin, a panther

copiously sprinkled with stars

draped in spider webs.

After a long day's work

he’d sit by the phone

in the kitchen

and counsel dying men

I’d never see.

When the virus spread

and independent living

was no longer an option

he wouldn’t complain, show fear

or pain, even when I’d rush him

to the emergency room.

It was in a sweat lodge with Mr. Morris

that my feathers dropped as he rose

above the cornfield like a vision.