My father was a writer. He wrote articles, short stories, children's books, and satires. Short, sharp, funny parodies like, I'm Okay, but You're Not So Hot, and the literary scavengers' answer to ... [+]
You said that you would only stay one night.
I made you tea and let you use my bed
then tucked you in and turned out all the lights
and in the dark your eyes were glowing red.
Now fourteen months have passed and you're still here,
stretched out upon my couch in my grey sweats.
And though I leave, you never disappear.
The house is cold; my towel's always wet.
I've no one else so I have to pretend
your presence here is welcomed and esteemed.
You don't pay rent; you've frightened every friend
whose pitying looks still haunt my long-dead dreams.
You ask what I would do if you were gone
Oh, so much more, I say, with the lights on.
I made you tea and let you use my bed
then tucked you in and turned out all the lights
and in the dark your eyes were glowing red.
Now fourteen months have passed and you're still here,
stretched out upon my couch in my grey sweats.
And though I leave, you never disappear.
The house is cold; my towel's always wet.
I've no one else so I have to pretend
your presence here is welcomed and esteemed.
You don't pay rent; you've frightened every friend
whose pitying looks still haunt my long-dead dreams.
You ask what I would do if you were gone
Oh, so much more, I say, with the lights on.