The Debt   

by R. S. Gwynn

   
He is the one you wouldn’t care to know.
He takes your arm with damp, fish-smelling hands
And gives no clue when he intends to go.
After an hour or so, he makes demands
That everyone must leave, and so they do.
The clock chimes midnight faintly, and you find
No company around but him and you.
He claims he has a need to speak his mind.
The first thing he reveals is what you own;
The second, how you shall be made to pay
For everything you thought you bought so cheap.
There in that chilly room, beside a heap
Of crumpled papers, you two sit alone.
He tilts his glass, and settles in to stay.

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