Though he would have no clothes worth borrowing
except for amusement, he wouldn’t borrow yours
and leave them scattered around, unwashed.
He would forgive you for making impolite noises
and listen to any exaggerated entries
in your overlong, untitled, unpublished,
and unpublishable autobiography
with its anecdotes about schools and carnal love
with a straight, polite face. When the rent was due 
and you needed to render unto the landlord
what was the landlord’s, he would forgive and forget
if you forgot or didn’t or couldn’t give,
and he would clean up after himself. If you didn’t
he would do it for you, and you’d feel guilty,
naturally, and most certainly move out
when he gave shelter to beggars, thieves, crackpots,
lepers, down-and-out whores, or you again.