Poem 15

It is a lush life 

and I am walking home, tapping my feet. 

I have a boombox in my mind, blues in orbit. 

I peer in, and shiver in the twilight alleys. 

a terror is more certain than all the rare desirable popular songs. 

terror follows me home

up the fire escape. 

guides my trembling hand nimbly and flips on the light switch. 

It sits down in my chair, lightly places crossed ankles on the green velvet ottoman. 

A terror is more uncertain when it is resting on my carpet and admiring the drapes.

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” it says.  

I am useless to fight, and I absolve to rest my walkman 

on the first post of the stairs. 

I turn, slowly, and hesitate; 

and I wonder why I let it get this far

where I have let it in, and terror now hangs like a stain 

soiling the bathroom floor.