Look there, through the peephole.
See him straightening his tie?
See him brushing dandruff
from his shoulders, fingers
passing through his rumpled hair?

Hello, Ma’am, are you the lady of the house?

Rumpelstiltskin, more like: spinning straw into gold—
peddling lapis lazuli for a fool’s price.

I have some encyclopedias here I’m only too happy to show you.
(Or 35 styles of Tupperware. Or sailboats admirably bottled.)

You pass your hand through the flap in the
tattered screen door. He squeezes your palm till it’s sore.

What’s a man gotta do in a town like this to get himself a fresh cup of coffee?

He has a foot in now. You’re proud
of your coffee, percolating on the counter since dawn.

It just so happens, he says, I’m runnin’ a two-for-one-special today.
26 books for the price of 13. Don’t have to skip a letter.

His front teeth bared; the crooked yellow gleam.
Scent of Old Spice and shoe polish.

Nice place you got here. Might have to take my shoes off, sit a spell.

Look there, through the parlor.
See how he stretches his scrawny legs?
See how he splays his heels on your window ledge?
Notice the hole in his sock that, sooner or later,
he’ll ask you to darn.

So tell me, Miss Lily, is there a Mister?

Ichabod Crane, more like: insatiable appetite—
I saved you a seat (patting the davenport pillow).

You’re flustered now, tugging your apron strings,
ankles wobbling in your shoes. To cover, you offer him
spice cake, a blunt knife, a small plate of butter.

You know, he says, feed a man this good (wiping the smug
swirl of his mouth), he’s liable to stay forever.