Poet: William Bronk | Composer: Eleanor Sandresky

Come, Evil, into my house;
The door is open
As it always was
Though not that you were expected.

But I should have known
And perhaps I did.
No matter.
You’re here.

What now?
We have to rearrange
I suppose
And I don’t know how.

You’ll need a different name,
Not that you care
Or care whatever
Whatever adjustments I make

Sit down.
You’re already at home.
More than I am.
We’ll live.