Tuesday, June 9, 2009


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
                                                                 maybe angry?
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.


Dorkmaster Flek said...

Let's not do that every night, okay? :P

Mary said...

oooo I hate things that go bump in the night!! but at least you have andrew... if you're alone that's when your imagination gets you the worst!

and about this letter in your mailbox... is that some sort of metaphor or is there really a letter with the word Jayson. if so, did you open it? if so, what did it say???!!

Katie said...

fml right?