The restful creaks of an old house at night
sound uncannily like footsteps
up back wooden stairs. I lie wide-eyed
in bed, rods and cones ready in the dark,
unblinkingly watchful of the open door.
Crystal candlestick sweaty
in clenched fingers, strange comfort
like a gun
sleeping beneath a pillow.
Glass is always my makeshift weapon of choice.
I’m thinking about an envelope in my mailbox
with no postage and just one word: a name
no stranger should know.
I’m thinking about a locker on a college campus
that belongs to someone, maybe crazy
about people sitting in parked cars along my street
about basement windows that needs bars.
At midnight I shake Andrew awake
and we search the house. I can sleep then, listening,
unable to tell distant thunder
from the low purr of the subway train.