He will rarely knock. If he decides to his knuckles will bounce off the wood quickly. A skipping record. A
He will fidget on the other couch for four minutes before pacing.
You will notice that his bare feet stick to the hardwood
like smacking lips.
If you indulge him,
if you attend him,
his stare will spoon-feed you challenges:
Why do you sit on your feet so much, if every time
your leg fills up with metal beads?
Why did you use those books you haven’t read
to put under your tv to make it taller? Why did you
stop painting your toenails? Why did you so carefully pick apart that styrofoam cup with the water still inside?
If you don’t indulge him
he’ll take his aching needle fingers and work his way into your cupboards.
He will eat the one-third cup of raw pasta at the bottom of the box
and will crunch and hum until
he gets you to smile.
He will then lift up
the corner of the rug
with a flexed toe
and make a comment
As he studies your twitching fingers he’ll narrate aloud the cold war
between your ambition
and your hands.
His Irish exit will either
leave you with all four corners of both your feet pressed into the floor,
or leave you cursing and hobbling, unsticking a single rotini
from the bottom of your right foot.