The Visitor

Waiting upstairs
Those green shoes on the welcome
mat (you’re not welcome)
I don’t feel welcome.

Back in the car I turn to one
blank station (static)
While you pound again with
That hand.

The weak grasp that told me
You’d let me call the shots.

But now you’re up there
Beating the wall
While I hide again with
This hand.

The weak grip on the wheel
You’ll pound all night.