They crept
on stealth feet
two of them
like animals with a hammer
and a screwdriver
they pried
into my sleep, privacy
and dreams. It was
their intention
to steal them,
haul them away
in a paper
bag, spend them
on something worthless
as crack cocaine. They came
like time with a flashlight
up the stairs
whispering and conspiring, stinking
of beer. I could
taste it. It was bitter, acrid
and rank so near. It was not
prudent to think
incorporeal things;
blessings, poetry and God
would have me killed
in an instant, if…
Richard Rensberry, Author at QuickTurtle Books®
QuickTurtle Books® 