He prefers to play alone.
They won’t believe him,
think him queer, and worry.
You should have friends
You should learn to play with others
You shouldn’t skulk by yourself.
At night he can hear them
on the other side of the wall:
He should go to Jimmy’s house
He should talk to someone his age
and their old bed shakes and beats
against his room.
He tries to quiet them,
spends the night at Andrew’s house
and throws up on the floor.
No one is as fine a D’Artagnan
as the man who springs with rapier full-drawn
out of his head. The old bush
by the corner of the house supplies
the sword he flourishes, turning
to parry and thrust against the source
until it is so stripped of leaves it dies.
Inside they brood over his fate.
Out of their fear they fashion
a little man to keep him company:
its eyes are the windows of old apartments
on Sunday, and voice is the rasp
when a telephone rings him
out of sleep, he lifts the receiver
and no one is there.
Now he and his companion
live together in their own house
and imagine each other.
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