Vanish

Behind the curtain, dust from various evenings are mingling,
and the bright sails are flanked by three promised words:
Special Export Beer. On the rug a cocoon swathed in
a yellowjacket-yellow blanket grunts, turns over.
An electric flower burns blue over by the corner.
The lights have little voices, they remember everything
from the moment you flick the switch. Whatever is left
of a candle won't let go of the air. Who goes there— 

I used to wish that no one would ever disturb me.
Now I want nothing except I stop disturbing people.
What can I be without disturbing people.

The jar beside the back door has refilled quickly.
Seems the days have not been getting any easier;
the day to quit does not seem any closer.
Though I note a certain levity behind locked doors,
I am crooked to comfort, and have a certain itch.
The content ones sleeping may stir or dream
but if I unbolt the door they will not object,
even if I am leaving and returning all night,
refilling, replaying, awakening, disturbing no one.
Who says I'm not the happiest ghost of my household?