You rascally being,
hollowing out the wood beam above my head!
Annoying sawdust alighting onto my lap
like flaky kindling, the discarded leftovers
of your new home, scattered and tossed aside
in the May breeze

We share an arena, a residence -
yours above the porch furniture
within the old ceiling.
Mine, my daily sit-ins with the rocker,
caressing the creaking floor beneath us.

We are both burrowers, of sort,
claiming our rights, digging into our tiny spaces
in an oh-so-big world where one unique life affects another.

I wonder: if we must share this old wood porch,
could you at least sweep up after yourself?