rewriting the genius of Billy Collins

You are the imprint on the duvet,

the squeaky toy in my backpack.

You are the obstacle on the stairs

and the spilt water round the dish.

You are the peering eyes around the corner,

and the scratch marks on the settee.

However, you are not the howling in the night,

the fly on the screen door,

or the broken sink.

And you are certainly not the chorus of frogs.

There is just no way you are the chorus of frogs.

It is possible that you are the patch of sunlight on the floor,

maybe even the alarm clock in the morning,

but you are not even close

to being the dust on the antique cabinet.

And a quick look in the mirror will show

that you are neither the ripped shoes in the closet

nor the stack of newspapers.

It might interest you to know,

speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,

that I am the sound of footsteps in the hall.

I also happen to be the stain on the table cloth,

the blanket on the couch,

and the old dent in the drywall.

I am also the raised voices in the garage

and the useless coffee cups.

But don’t worry I’m not the imprint on the duvet.

You are still the imprint on the duvet.

You will always be the imprint on the duvet,

not to mention the squeaky toy somehow in my backpack.