Chelsea Wilds
The visitor doesn’t move like the orange butterfly
that followed me on Arthur Avenue one sunny Bronx day.
He doesn’t sleep deeply on twig mattresses
like Italian brown bears in Abruzzo’s national park.
My new neighbor is a stranger to restraint.
On the night he arrived, I awoke to his roar filling my rooms.
He doesn’t tread softly. Barefoot, he stomps like an elephant,
demanding validation and slaughtering my peace.
Pandemic days make an escape risky, so I work from the office,
turn the TV volume high to muffle disruptive sounds.
Before bed, I stuff my ears with plugs, pray he sheds his skin,
and fast transforms from a baboon into a goldfish.