Incorporeal Things

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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®

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