He brings me books:
A biography of Elvis Costello;
a notebook from 1932, filled with careful script:
a schoolgirl’s notes on history;
and the like.
He sings to me when I can’t sleep,
tells me stories about bars and hidden tables
talks me safely toward the morning,
through the dark.
He sits across from me
while I read and peel an orange,
an ordinary waking, but still I catch him watching
like I made the sun come up.