“While playing Sherlock Holmes, I became a recluse.”
-Jeremy Brett
Before you grabbed me by the throat,
I was greedy for the company
of my fellows, savoring the discourse
of the cable and conductor,
lolling until the final platter was
cleared away. Misanthrope now,
I order meals dispatched
to my rooms, and retrieve them
when the hallway is desolate.
This century chafes.
All indoors is far too radiantly lit,
and I cannot sleep for the noise.
Synthetic cushions pare my
flesh all summer and cleave
through to the bone in the cold.
Where others linger,
I’m off. What they deem
inconsequential, I peruse and
caress until its secret nature yields.
Once at the deadest
hour of night, you let up
your guard and I was loose
once more.
But then the light came up
with a volley of ironshod
hooves striking cobble.
Tell them I can see no one.