A Quiet Place

 

The night insinuates its ghosted presence

Through a mocking by crows of the burglar

Now pulling on a black balaclava, adjusted

To accommodate for menace; standing over

A cracked mirror stolen last week, still lying

Prone upon the unswept floor.

 

Midnight's bells chime suddenly, electronically,

Across the way; no time left to stay,

To contemplate the risks now to be taken:

Remember how to sway from swinging

Baseball bats, heaved by adrenaline householders

When old boards creak too much.

 

Those of crows are not the only eyes, peering

Along this road; shadows provide easy shelter

For the fearful, the insomniacs, who seem to see

The faintest hint, a wraith perhaps, a sprite beyond the trees.

 

Quiet now descending slow as the shadow man

With darting eyes leaps athletically

Between orange pools of glistening roadway,

Defiant in the drizzle, they wait for a new day

As night dwellers race against its reluctant light.

 

Nothing stirs by two o'clock; only distant sirens

No cause for alarm: they hush down along their way.

All now quiet; the moon is down - I will go to work

And someone please have mercy on me.

That window shows promise though, not locked

And so in I go, and as quickly out . . .

 

As I dropped to the floor I saw, standing there

By her dressing table, a night-gowned woman

With wild, frightening eyes. She screams, keens

As if the world were chasing her; a real banshee.

It was only me; but the spell is broken,

Peace is disturbed, as the coppers say.

 

How will I ever pay my rent? – it's due today.

 

Chris Hubbard

2020