Tom McLaughlin
Dialogue With a Household Guest
Clinging to the bedroom wall, a gecko
watches unwearyingly as you sleep
the sleep of the tropics: still,
untroubled, while outside the rain
is steadily flooding the city.
You don’t yet hear his occasional chirp.
You will wake to the chirp
of a digital alarm, reminder of the gecko’s
peaceful fellowship in this city
where you have no family, where sleep
binds the ragged thoughts of rain
that in your mind is falling even still.
In the conjunto, the air is perfectly still.
Deaf to the quiet chirp
underneath the evening rain,
you don’t yet think of the gecko
as a guardian, nourishing your sleep
with his presence in this raucous city.
The rain has brought the city
to a total stand-still.
You have fallen asleep.
In a dream, the chirp
of the household gecko
echoes through the rain.
Unwelcome thoughts rain
down unchecked as the city
wakes to an injured dawn. The gecko
has disappeared from the wall. Still,
in your mind his rhythmic chirp
is lulling you into a dead sleep.
Wash your face: wipe the sleep
from rested eyes and go out into the rain.
Your mobile phone chirps
impatiently (a friend from the city
texting to check if you’re still
coming to that party). Without the gecko’s
chirp, only traffic’s quarrel fills this city,
asleep to the beauty of its rain.
You practice being still as a gecko.
Tom McLaughlin, Open Houses, Marble Poetry, 2021.