There was nothing to be seen in the aftermath.
Sensations were deposited in the library
recessed down long halls of the mind.
Once there, memories were tainted
by volumes of other material.
They were victims of doubt.
Like the series of sounds
previous, they resided
in that library alone,
with nothing more
to give substance.
And validity was
questionable
and suspect.
The body was back upstairs.
Several minutes were spent
double-checking on the lawn,
the kitchen, the family room,
the garage, the back yard,
the windows, and door bolts.
The dog and the cat
stared with tired eyes
as the body returned.
None of the white orbs
indicating any alarm.
The dog had resettled itself
before sheets settled again.
The cat continued to stare.
A soft noise issued from the kitchen below.
A single stair creaked a sorrowful cry.
A clang of metal reported from the dark street.
A knock on the door—had it been real?—could have been the morning paper.
The cat shifted, but
probably not from the noise.
The dog took no notice.
A home. A room. A bed. A cat. A dog. A body. A mind.
The body dared not move an inch.
YOU ARE READING
Warning Signs
PoetryThings go bump in the night... or did they? Are you heeding the warning signs? Tricks of the mind. Are they tricks? Or reality? That's the problem. Warning: If you're looking for a clear plot. This is not for you. Check out my other books, but not t...
