John Grey
There was that hour
when I was in the house alone,
outside was on the cusp of light and dark,
and I was on a similar verge,
old enough to be on my own,
but still a baby when it came
to creaking floors, rustling curtains,
and the very thought of basements.
That terrified courage
could only be relieved
by a car in the driveway,
garage door grinding open,
key in the lock,
the sound of my name
spoken by a familiar other.
Television couldn’t protect me.
Nor the schoolbooks I opened,
as I sat on the floor,
puzzled over homework.
Not when shadows lengthenedby the moment.
Mice ran relays inside the walls.
And thunderstorms hung around the horizon
like punks under a street lamp.
But when my mother came home,
there were no more dangers.
Just bills on the table.
And her turn to be afraid.