Intruder

A ruptured bottle
of what may be clear soda
in the middle of the floor
is tantamount to a declaration
of the End Times
if you encounter it
unexpectedly upon returning home.

Search every corner of the house
with a Louisville Slugger
and your uncle’s Marine knife
from World War II, hoping to save yourself
from the Satan, the Antichrist
dressed as local crackhead
or desperate soul awaiting battle and death
though justifiable mayhem on your part;
how the papers will honor you if you do this,
this one allowable kill.

But there’s nothing, no one here,
and you’re forced to conclude
it was some feat of nature
that dropped and burst the bottle,
or perhaps it was the cat making mischief.

You drop and tug the bewildered cat close,
your weapons on the floor behind you,
heart askew with relief
and regret. You soak up the regret
with the cat held close, returning yourself
from the killing field.