Here is a peddler on my kitchen floor,
    A madman with a broken back. He'll barter
    Bits of detritus, my own black spoor
    My crumbs and soily nickels. Greedy martyr,
    Miser, opportunist. At a touch
    He flies away like leaves, takes up his pack,
    Becomes a million demons, some nonesuch
    Who whistles in the sink, or hides a tack
    Inside the sugar bowl. I stamp and call,
    I search the tissue boxes. Like a sneeze,
    He answers: "I am Legion, I am All,"
    And scratches in the plaster. No decrees,
    No exorcist can bar him from my home.
    He cheats me- selling me what I've always owned.

Copyright © Alice Bell, 2002.  All Rights Reserved.