A young man and woman

        came up the walk today,

past the azalea and gardenia

        bushes, up the front steps,

and rang the doorbell.

        I greeted them with towel

wrapped around my girth

        (all of it), and my wet hair

hung in long black strands

        as water droplets spilled

between us on the tiled floor.

        "Good afternoon, Sir," he said

and eyed my latest tattoo,

        the one with the two-headed

hawk. Nobody ever comes

        this way, I wanted to say.

The woman noticed

        dark clumps, the membrane

nests of mud wasps, near the porch

        ceiling light.

"We are the Census."

        Another ten years gone...

"And we'd like to ask you a few

        questions." Somehow, as if by

magic, or maybe it was her perfume,

        the wasps got riled

and dive-bombed her big poofy hair.

        Her blue eyes choked

with fear, and all I could

        do was take the towel off

from around my waist and swat

        at the insects, at these strangers

as the wasps chased them

        down the gravel drive to me dirt

road at the bend. On the way back,

my neighbor saw me and waved,

        then shouted: "I had to do the same."