I met a poet on my way to the toilet,
a stubbly fellow on his way to the kitchen.
He looked as if he’d seen a tiger upstairs
in the master bedroom.
I wasn’t long sitting down, staring at wallpaper,
when a knock came to the door.
‘Is there anyone there?’
There was a blink in one eye
while I ruminated.
You can imagine whatever you like.
It was the poet’s voice that disturbed me.
The fingers stained with verse turned off the light
and it was dark as pitch.
You can imagine the tiger at work,
minding his business.