Achievement

"Achievement" is like a man
Old, bent, carrying a broomstick under his arm,
Shuffling through the kitchen late at night,
A shadow passing
In front of the one pinpoint of light in the house
Under the kitchen cabinet. Eclipsing the silver drawer,
As if on some great errand, his ambling purpose takes him beyond
The refrigerator, to the dark alcove of the next room.

He slinks onward, muttering his plans
For How It Will Be! Meanwhile we sit
On a stool, watching the room empty him out
—And fill again with his hulking shape, mad, fitful.
Back to where he came, he crosses back in front
Of the light, the one way we can see him.

As he retreats, his wide round ghost melts
Into darkness. Yet his midnight shade lingers
As we stare down white tiles, black under the stool,
And we know, yes we know, that he, in his stooped
Agitation
Will ruffle forth again, musty slippers scraping
Our attention, saying, "Yes, it's me—
I have come for a bit of bread, cheese, meat!"
And we cannot, no we cannot, do anything
In the dark except help him to eat.