Squatters (Poetry)

Vagrant thoughts slip in behind my back
find empty rooms and lodge inside my head
they set up home (security is slack)
get comfortable — I sense them stretch and spread.

Strangers who have claimed a part of me
they take up space like guests who will not go
outstay their welcome — hang on stubbornly
resisting all the hints a host can throw.

They clutter corners — litter blows around
spills and tumbles — scatters floor to floor
I hear them whisper — pick up foreign sound
muffled through thin walls. Each creaking door

alerts me to the fact I’m not alone
I’ve squatters of a type it’s hard to shake —
invisible. My mind is not my own
I’ve let things go. And that was my mistake.