While he sleeps, you could be
listening to Chopin or Bach—
the Nocturnes, the Preludes, whatever,
even Debussy’s Le Mer would do—
instead you are turning over garbage cans and scaring cats.
While you sleep, he could be
eating Russian caviar or tripe
or baby turnips from Estonia.
Instead he is prowling around listening for
the sounds of teeth tearing flesh apart—
as if you actually liked the smell
of blood and excrement—
as if you actually wanted to suck
fresh marrow from bones so alive they burn.