There is a poet living in my head.
It must be by mistake,
he may not have found the attic room
next door that is for rent.
He drinks a lot at nights,
keeping me from my sleep,
singing sobbing Russian songs
and playing Armenian music
on an instrument I don’t know.
I am glad he leaves me alone by seven
so the stuff I need to do can be done.
But by the time I have my coffee break
he starts mumbling.
I can’t do anything about it but write,
bring what he says into lines
and he doesn’t pay rent
so I suffer tremendously,
all for the sake of art.