My Editor Comes Back Looking For Another Mistake

I was making fruit salad
when the bastard knocked.
I blanked, asked who is it?

Knock, knock, stet.
The wood was harsh.
It was winter, and cold

in certain parts of the world.
I let him in, and the wind
hammered the walls.

I went back to the salad,
dicing cherries and whatnot.
He laid his walking stick.

Through the thick current
of electronic licks
from the idle radio,

I could hear him wheezing.
So I gave him my journal
from the bottom of my heart,

and he made a puny fire.