The Demo.

I sit at the stone table,  
drink tea  
and try to think not of the demagogue who is still  
sleeping in a room upstairs if one was to turn right  
on their toes.  
I have a dangerous case of logorrhea  
when in such presence  
the nerves are importunate and fresh and new.  
I am filled with crotchets  
that he notices  
and leaves somewhere in a bottom drawer  
to drag out when I least expect.  
It's been said, and he's been known, to cosher me  
with his cater-cousin manner  
and easy eyes.  
He is the cynosure.  
I cannot prove he knows of this  
but you can feel it, in the air,  
when his overcritical mind  
meets yours.  
In Winter, like a dictator, his only delectation  
is in blunt honesty. He's not one to bowdlerize.  
The tea is gone, I take it to the sink,  
wash it up, place it on the wrack.  
I can't help but feel, as he kisses my neck when he wakes,  
he has made his choice  
to misprize everything I am.  
I am currently implacable, though it's probably just PMT.