I Do Not Live Here Poem by Bernard Quest

This never was my house; you let me live here though,
And there will be, I know, new lodgers, one day.
It is not this, but the thought that I will blink
and never again find our crooked street
if only there to slink in half-light and peer
through shutters, so that he will stand and pull them
yet more tight against the shape that shifts waxy
black leaves of the shrubs below the windows;
it is this, that cracks me up.