I stand there at the door, at the top of the stairs really,
and greet them. I stand on one leg, a foot upon a knee, a hand upon a spear.
I am not the tribal chief, but a capable ambassador of tribal hospitality.
And because they know and love me, it's as if I am the maitre d'.

But as people go, this tribe of mine is under stress,
being encroached upon my modern things and rented space.
Jolly as I am with these White Diners, my lands open to them,
alone one feels a bit of trouble, and not so happy, actually.

Writers are creatures of defeat. Chekhov was marked for death,
but that didn't stop him.
They tried to get something right, but, like Moby Dick,
they didn't quite get it, or rather it got more of them,
then they got of it to bring back,
though they kept at it awhile.

In the floating wreckage,
the coffin of a friend,
an unlikely compatriot,
a book to hold on to
for salvation.