The Visitor

Listen if you will in the quiet of the night

To the scraping and scratching of things out of sight

To the noise of blood as it roars in your ears

To the beat of your heart as it measures your fears

 

Somewhere in the house a clock says tick-tock

Below in the street a key clicks in its lock

The third stair from the top creaks as it might

When stepped on in stealth by something so slight

 

Then hinges in want of an oil drop or more

Announce a faint shadow at the bedroom door

You turn on a light to see who is there

Not even a dust mote moves in the air

 

Return to the pillow, try to find sleep

The visitor is gone, no need to weep