New Tenant at the Haunted Squat
When the door opens
she confronts him: insists on staying.
Begs to be seen as the red-heart of reason.
Her skin glows like rainwater in streetlights
against the cracked window behind her.
Which leads him to assume
only as a damp-stained
figure, on the living-room wall.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Andrea Bowd would be
pleased to hear them.