There Is No One Home But Her Poem by James McLain

There is no one home but her,
And my shadow lean stands out upon the wall.
My boxer's that she wears are but a door,
The back door that I have come to know to well.

Through the window in her room a blinking star,
Distracted by the light, I do not think the moon
is full by touch, I feel it is.

I hear that all to familiar hum and what it is,
An early winter orange that is sour to the tounge.
In her guilded bed of yellow bronze, dead a sleep.

Over incoherent moan's
Warm and still her body moves and the vibrator,
I hear it is still on.