redyellow2

By K. Andrew Turner

This cool breeze scrapes a crisp leaf
across the bricked driveway
in silver moonlight.
Key in hand I pause
half-way up the front porch
and think of bones crunching.
Inside I will be safe from Death.

Heart thumps.
Synapses fire.

Logically, Death has come for another:
the frail man
I call my grandfather;
I no longer worry.
If I strain, the buzz of machines
leak through the door.

My heart pounds
fast
against its prison.

How stray sounds
lead the mind down paths
dark and twisted
full or misshapen shadows.

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