It seems that every Sunday night,

the stranger on my couch is drunk.

Usually, he’s quiet and stares at the wall,

with not much to say.

But when he’s drunk, he stares at me

in an _I-have-words_ kind of way.

I can ignore him with ease.

When I feel like sitting beside him,

I offer him some crackers and cheese.

I wonder what it is about Sunday

that gets him so riled up.

On Monday morning, he’s normal again,

not a drip of alcohol in his cup.

I don’t know how to talk to him.

Even if I did speak,

the chances I’d get a reply are slim.

But still, one Saturday night,

too close to twelve,

I grab a bottle of liquor

from one of my shelves.

The stranger on my couch

does a little nod,

then lifts his cup and says,

“You can call me Bob.”

(I really don’t know who this man is.

I think I might have to call the police.

I wonder what he does when I’m asleep?)