The lumbering presence
of an unwelcome visitor
can’t easily be ignored.

I look over him, under him,
but he’s always in my way.

Nosy, clumsy and smelly,
he knocks over lamps,
and scatters mail
off the table on to the floor.

As I try to concentrate
on my anapests, metrical feet
and memorable enjambments,
he demands my attention
and nudges me with his trunk.

No one else can see or hear
this elusive creature skulking
around all the rooms of my house.

Curious about my past,
he tabulates everything
I ever won or lost.

When he plops down on
my Empire horse-hair couch,
I hear a clean crack.

I hide in a closet
and wait for him to come
prodding at the door
with his massive proboscis.

I lie quiet as a stone,
and when he pries open the door:

“Surprise, Mr. Pachyderm,
you can’t bother me anymore!”