In his Russian greatcoat
slamming open the door 
with an unpardonable bang,
and he has been here ever since.

He changes everything,
rearranges the furniture,
his hand hovers 
by the phone;
he will answer now, he says;
he will be the answer.

Tonight he sits down to dinner
at the head of the table
as we eat, mute;
later, he climbs into bed
between us.
 
Even as I sit here,
he stands behind me
clamping two 
colossal hands on my shoulders
and bends down 
and whispers to my neck,
From now on, 
you write about me.