Poor Monster

In the quiet morning,
beneath the cashmere calm,
behind the dog's soft snoring
and the purring knead
of pink-ed flesh,

a chill threatens
from the door
that won't quite close.
The wind
teases the cracks
around the casement,

searches for purchase
on the slippery ledge,
its sucking need just
outside.

The winter sky
has gone dull white,
a rictus that sucks
the color from the earth,
and no thousand trees'
brown fingers can
pull it back.

It is the season
that signals death,
when the weak tire
of waiting and the strong
grow tired.

It perches on the sill,
spies through the shutters
ruffles it feathers
and waits for the shattering.

Poor Monster.

It is consumed with lonely
and it wants only you.
Wrap yourself in dread
and wait for the
final signal bell.

The last train leaves at dusk.

~ Elodie Pritchartt

August 12, 2007