PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

1

The first time I heard scratches at the door
to my bedroom, I thought mice were the cause.
I made a mental note to purchase traps
down at the local hardware store---and that
resolve allowed me to fall back to sleep.
Next morning, as I stepped outside with the
intent to make the purchase, as resolved,
I saw what was left of a dead hare in
my yard.  I saw what was left because the
body seemed dessicated or sucked dry,
and thus the flesh collapsed upon the bones.
(I felt just a bit sorry for the poor
rabit and thought, "What a great metaphor
"to illustrate how life in this dreary
"age sucks us dry of all vitality.")
I fetched my shovel and prepared a small
hole in the side yard, there to bury it.
That said, I went about my day's errands.

2
That night, I heard more scratching at the door
of my bedroom.  The scratches were not quite
as tentative or subtle as before.
And these were followed by what seemed to be
a push or shove against the door to make
it rattle somewhat.  This was no mere mouse.
Perhaps some larger rodent had obtained
a covert entrance into my home and
expected that behind the closed, locked door,
a tasty morsel---not an angry man,
bereft of some sleep---was available
behind it.  I decided that the best
course was not to confront it in the dark---
perhaps risking a rabid bite as well---
but to examine my house thoroughly
and find the wholes through which the pest might crawl,
and call a contractor to make repairs.
Next morning, I spent several hours after
first light searching, to no avail.  But when
I stepped outside I found the carcasses
of two racoons, that might have been quite large,
but now were just as dessicated as
the rabbit had been.  So, again, I took
shovel in hand and dug another grave
next to the first, and thos disposed of them.

3
A night or two passed without incident.
But then, the third night after, I awoke
to scratching, shuffling sounds that came right through
the ceiling from the attic .  This effect
went on for almost two long hours and then
ceased suddenly.  I hardly slept at all,
which did not ease my righteous rage.  At dawn,
after a few shreds of hard sleep, I rose,
dressed, and, cursing, decided to inspect
the attic.  I had not gone up there since
my parents, whose house this once was, had both
passed out of life.  Accumulated junk,
and possibly some valuable antiques,
cluttered the space up there---all covered with
thick layers of cobwebs.  I thought I should
consult with an exterminator to
obtain an estimate.  When I stepped out,
I was relieved that no dead animal
lay in my yard.  But later, Mrs. Puce,
who lived next door and always kept apace
with our town's gossip, saw me and stepped out
to tell me (with her face an ashen pale)
that in the next street over a dead man---
whom we all knew to be our neighborly
drunk---had been found, dead, draped over a curb;
and drained, she said, of every bit of fluid,
with multiple fang marks upon his flesh,
and covered with long strands of moistened silk.