Homeowner

Hudson Review, The, Winter 2004 by Wagoner, David

I had come back to a house I thought was mine,

Locked tight and almost paid for. It was empty

Except for a dog and Goodwill furniture,

But through the glass of the dead-bolted front door

Before I could turn the key, I saw a face

That wasn't supposed to be there. I'd seen it

Often, or ones like it, on street corners

When I would mutter, No, I'm very sorry,

No handouts before the hard-luck stories

Were halfway through. A black face. Young.

Now staring with black-and-white eyes from the inside

Like a homeowner surprised by a bill collector.

he scrambled away out of sight toward what I'd thought

Was my kitchen. I ran around to the garden

To meet him (as he stumbled down the steps).

And wrestled him to the ground and held him there.

For whole seconds we had nothing to do

Or say. His eyes were shut. I looked at my lawn,

My garage, my fence, my roses, my cherry tree,

My birdbath. he was twelve. When I let him go,

he dove into weeds. I shut a broken window

And some open drawers like an inside man concealing

Evidence. Then I solved the Mystery

Of the Watchdog That Only Watched:

She was licking an empty bowl, which had been filled

By a wonderful stranger. She was dancing around me

And around me, hoping I'd be wonderful too.