Sits in the straight-backed chair
opposite the door in the wall,
shotgun across his knees,
glasses on the end of his nose,
and rubs at an itch above his eye.
They will come by night
when the building settles
around the central stairwell
and all the old ghosts
have returned to their bones.
They will come by stealth
and tiptoe, with torchlight playing
across the graffiti, and shadows
dancing over the cigarette butts
and beer bottles They will come with
the Lord in their right eye and the
Devil in their left. They will be
gentlemen about it of course, but
force of arms will be with them and a
terrible righteousness
He does not think he can keep them out
and he is not sure he can take them with him.
In fact he is not even sure he knows
what he is doing. His heart is weak and
his head is heavy and he can't see so good
anymore. If only he had a dog. If only he
had a radio and music, something old and smooth
and sad. If only he had a smoke.
Midnight passes with the moon,
and behind him the curtains stir
and a paper bird takes wing.
It is surely past time. He is thirsty
and his bowels ache and his legs are cramping.
How long does it take three dread men
to climb some stairs. His fingers twitch and he
hears a rat's sound. Death comes slowly.