I’m waiting empty in a cold house,
with shamrocks, the cat and favored books,
listening for the old thud of new boots
gunning to kick- in this loose-hinged heart.
The grasping hands of minions
with much to lose, I imagine, close on me.
They drag me, incendiary,
into their infra-red night.
Unopened mail and seed starts on the table
is how my neighbors find me gone.
No bloated stench. No skeletal sneer.
Only a storm door banging mad in wind.
by G. Karl Marcus