The
boneman in my closet breathes black spots on the full-length,
silver-backed mirror that hangs on the other side of the door.
He eats dirty t-shirts and wants me to move my
hat collection onto the upper shelf, rather than hanging on display out in the room.
He has a
menagerie of
spiders that turn cartwheels and can perform a variety of other
vaudeville tricks.
He excretes dustballs like tumbleweeds until he cannot move for them.
He has no concept of cleaning them out.
The boneman guards the door at the back to keep
the things with glass teeth from coming through.
He leaves on the first of the month to go to
tea parties.
He heads jauntily off to these gatherings, tipping me a wave as he goes, but slips back in late at night after I’ve gone to sleep, as if he is ashamed for being after
curfew.
We have never discussed a curfew.
He hides my
shoes when moody or depressed, or when he simply feels like a bit of conversation.
He doesn’t care if he makes me late for important things.
He oversees the
breeding of the
clothes hangers, culling and swelling their numbers at seeming whim.
He argues with something in the
air vents that I cannot see or hear. At these times, his voice goes shrill and high. I usually leave the room.
I believe that he was briefly married to the spirit of an
iced tea. I know this because I was asked to sign the papers officiating the ceremony. I later found the bottle in the trashcan, and he will not speak of her.
He mediated the
peace accords between myself and the mice who live underneath the floorboards to both side’s contentment.
The boneman in my closet speaks 3 dozen languages, at least 4 of which I cannot find in any volume of
inguistics.
He give advice when I’m getting dressed, making suggestions and vetoing. We have differing tastes when it come to
apparel.
I saw him injured once. I believe that he got into a fight with the neighbor’s cat. He whispers darkly against it when it comes to window and
miaows.
He will sometime threaten to go away, to leave and never come back. I bring him
chocolate and he is happy again.
I have my suspicions about the death of a man across town. He was
strangled in a most unusual manner. I cannot prove it and so I do not bring it up.
The boneman in my closet smoothes my hair and kisses my face at night.