From our Fall/Winter 2008-2009 issue, our fourth NaPoMo featured poem, by David Welch.
Thanks for Sending Tom Jones to My Door in a Box
He wouldn't leave.
All night we watched through the slats in the blinds
and he just sat there, sullen.
We're told of sexual escapades,
that he's amorous, high-spirited. The evidence is curious.
Though once, his compact body opened,
the dusty musk perfuming
the air, briefly, and we watched
as he clapped himself around the quickening breeze.
It was cold out, and April,
his thin skin marked up like a ledger,
beige, a bit torn.
We argued for hours
over whether to take him in,
offer cigarettes or an orange,
a change of clothes;
whether to call the authorities or take care of him ourselves.
The slim cuts on our hands became their own story.
A possum limped about the lawn
as the skyline crept purple.
And somewhere, the leaves shook their veracity,
as when in spring scents rise
and fade with quickened ease. As when a body is paper
it sits there, believing the fluttering wind.