An Intruder Poem by Morgan Michaels

The screen door creaked open.
The plein-aire sun aimed blinding white shafts
at the plated seed-boxes, heating up their hulls.
Inside, Marcellina made her mournful confession
'Rinconosci in questo amplesso'
a laugh, no matter how often you hear it.
Hopping hot the terrace tiles:
southward, the city vanished in smog.
The ESB glinted dully in its hazy pellicle.
I stood blinking in the doorway
wearing a sweeping, snow-white cotton caftan from Connolly's,
its cowl down, looking much like the priest of Yoruba
who lives in the projects across the street
and strolls to the corner candy store on Sundays;
or, watering can in hand
like the ghost of the season, fleeing
or a Roman fertility deity, of priapistic leanings.
White is cool:
For some reason known best to God,
darks drink in sunlight repelled by whites.
This is scientific fact, I kid you not,
accounting for those dark lines under the eyes of footballers
and much, much more

'Hey', I said...