Silent Martin

He was a pretty good guest
Wherever he went, but just
A pretty good guest, even

When he was the homeowner.
He left very little mess.
He repaired nothing himself.

When his partner showed the house
To some prospective buyers,
He sat in the dining room,

His gleaming laptop open
On the faux-marble table
And nodded when they stopped by,

Politely, but wordlessly,
As if he were his houseguest.
Then, when someone bought the house,

His partner moved out early,
But no one saw Martin go.
It was only years later

That the new owners noticed
Signs a guest still lived with them—
A washed mug in the dish rack,

A towel in the hamper,
A slight change in the angle
Of a chair by a window—

Although maybe it wouldn’t
Be accurate to call it
Living now, Martin, would it?