It must be obvious
to someone that to mention
that word
is to ask it in
as if speech
is an invitation
each time, every time;

you hear that word —
it opens and closes
with such ferocity —
you must hear that word
and be a tad afraid
of it; afterward, you lie
in pre-dawn dark and worry.

Get up, and it will
follow you around,
chase you from pantry
to bathroom and finally
catch you in that shabby
room, across from
your living room —

that room where your junk
lives. It’s a hazardous place
and you might end up
staying in it, if you don’t watch
out. And then? What then?
Well, you could make a home of it, what with
all those boxes to empty…

you could sit there among rubble,
enjoy a ruined view, wondering
about what was that danger you feared —
was it your memories, or was it
something else, mixed up with them?
You don’t know right now, so
you will sit there, I guess, like a fool or a king

until
you
either
are destroyed
or you
at last
find out.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T