-The Busybody-

He's guilty of consumption.

The pages hold more than a few old stories,

And wanderings pause long enough

To be explored between periods of vacancy.––

Call him diarist on the days when

Occasional offerings insure safe passage.

But who can argue against smooth running?––

As to interiors beforehand, gaudy wallpapers told of love and death,

Of worry and great happiness —of bad taste, and great sorrow.

––The houseflies, belly-up at the windowsills

Are dead of natural causes:

Heatstroke, incoherent slamming and

The inability to exit the premises.–– 

He would argue: the swatter’s as natural a cause as any.––

Open the door, pick a window, any entry,
Any set of stairs, mantle, hallway, any bedroom.

Some say he's simply sleight-of-hand.––

Now you see him, now you think you've seen him.

A meddler into the affairs of others, the busybody's adrift

And snooping around.

Even the dead have surrendered their space of peace.

Living, some say he'd best be served by leaving everyone to their own interests.
He would argue: better to live among them than die along with them;

That it's best for all concerned when he's made up his mind at the table, but

(Kerouac,–– of eight, the third child of God, said:

"He is your friend, let him dream;

 He's not your brother, he's not yr. father,

 He's not St. Michael he's a guy".)

Inevitability points the way like a chromed ornament at the nub of a hood.

All there is to do is con the thing on a heading to a destination.––

He would argue:

One hand for the journey.
One hand for the poem.