In winter,
he’s an iguana
clinging to the radiator,
basking in the little warm
that keeps his body 
warmer than the chill of his blood.
He’s never in the mood for doing anything
which is why the dishes are unwashed,
no books are page-marked,
walls combine with dust and spiders
to make ceiling-hanging webs.
Responsibility can’t move him.
Nor love.
Only hunger, the cry of his stomach.
Or sleep, the quilted barricade
between his shuttered eyes and the world.
He envies the spider
whose meals come to it
even when it’s shut down and dreaming.
But iguanas eat spiders.
The analogy ends there.