The Poetry Man

The Poetry Man You crept into your office each day around eight, not because you embraced mornings, but because you couldn't work in the small Back Bay apartment. Your son was five, I think. He bored you. Your office held no books. I never saw you nap, but then again, I only bearded you in your den late afternoons. More of a lair. You nursed the desk. Several of us spotted the wine in the drawer.