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While the whole world is out and about,
pursuing tips and victories,
I make sorry nest in my makeshift cave of the day.
While prowling in the night
I find abandoned basement lairs.
I can get in through a window, then cover it
with fabric at hand.
Usually old remnants come with the place.
Sometimes mildewed books – all too often
historical romance potboilers with overwrought plots,
impossible dialog, little to no accurate history,
yet colorful enough prose to hold a reader’s eye.
My night hunter’s eyes optimize in low light.
They take what they get, enjoy the colors.
I can teleport line of sight, or through a route
I know so well I can follow accurately in my mind.
I like a place I can reliably access before dawn.
A place generally unappealing, unthought about.
I need no working amenities, no wires or cables,
no links to outside.
I am content with walls, windows covered,
to abide quietly.
I use what contents lie about for amusement.
Even old telephone books, pages frail from
compromising weather, tell stories, prompt
imaginings of relationships between names,
smiles over unintended puns, games with
numerologies.
Minds look for patterns.
We want our world to make sense.
We want stories with happy endings,
or justified ironies.
We want cause and effect, clearly demarcated,
posted warnings we can ignore at our own risk.
But even when we risk with abandon, we expect
saving, at least by Jesus or Love.
We want.  But we so seldom get what we want
that we make up stories to explain our own
shortcomings rather than want something more
obtainable, or find joy in making do.
If I really wanted something better, in all
this time wouldn’t I have found it, or
given it a name?
I like quiet.
It lets me hear, notice, the little changes,
when the big winds aren’t obscuring.
I like my own company.
After all these years of such companionship,
shared private humor, calming tricks,
sustaining fantasies – even though we know
they aren’t true.