At Home

The Goat-Man squats in the middle of the floor,
whittling flutes,
a small pile of leaves smoldering in an ashtray,
the air smoky blue.
Mice nibble at piles of books,
making soft beds of words.
There is no furniture.
Only thick, blue-plaid blanket,
sleeping bag roll,
and the dull white skull of a deer.

The landlady does not like him.
The blonde curls of wood choke the sweeper.
She is afraid of the smoke twisting
a blue scarf around her neck,
the dark sockets of the deer's eyes,
the sharp tips of horn.

She doesn't understand
the small crescents gouged in the hardwood floor
and sliced into the kitchen linoleum,
or the bloodstains in the sink.

But what can she do?
She is just one woman.
He has such powerful thighs
and it is said he can chew
the tops off beer cans.