Griffin
Not a mythical creature,
or the patriarch of a lewd, cartoon family,
you are my roommate.
Well, one of them,
and you have been for two years now.
Superhero posters make your room your own.
Perhaps you’re concealing a secret identity
when you refuse to hang out with us;
on late night drives,
lunch or dinner,
all we do is make awkward small talk.
And you’re the only one
to keep his door locked.
Your girlfriend never comes around anymore,
you’re always at her place,
though, we don’t mind.
Sometimes it’s hard to tell where you are.
Perhaps you’re a murderer,
waiting for us to leave
so you can indulge in violent ceremony.
Whatever you’re into.
In the words of Jerry Garcia,
I implore you,
“Please don’t murder me.”
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