James Finnegan
Life Leitmotif
When least expected, he’d appear at the door,
smiling, a thrift-store scarf, an insouciant flair.
No resisting the rumpled suit, blond windblown hair.
He’d talk as though we’d seen him the day before,
through foyer to our kitchen, offer of food, drink.
Was he a cousin of yours, your wife’s college friend?
A spare bedroom prepared if he wanted to spend
the night. Not at all a bother, back in an eye-blink.
He’d never asked to borrow the car. Money
was not talked of in polite company. Towels left
on the bureau folded. Morning, the room bereft
of him, the bed never slept in. With a whisky
he’d talked away the hearth’s flames, no way to follow
those tales. A lovely note left on the pillow.