when I was very young
my father let me watch a movie
the plot was beyond me
unfathomable for a child
but I remember the pictures –
the man sitting on the couch
stormy night
watching TV
his back to the dark window
Something taps
on the glass behind him
he does not look –
Something crashes through the glass
grabs hold of him
he screams
then gurgles
hands claw
blood spews
the Unknowable Thing
hidden in blackness
pulls the man out
into the night’s hungry, ebony maw –
and here I sit
years later
it’s 3:15 am
on a stormy nebraska night
chewing on the memory
writing this poem
with my back to the window

and . . .
wait a minute –
Someone’s tapping
on the glass behind me –
and in my mind i can see
Its demented boney fingers
tipped with yellowed nails –
“i don’t want to turn around.”
a snorting sound
from a bladed mouth
in the black beyond the glass –
“I will not turn around.”
a growl – the slippery licking of lips
“oh god! i’m turning around!”
lightning flashes on its knobby, greasy head
as the Something
just taps, taps, taps
until the taps turn
to heavy pounding –
the crashing of glass
Something just screamed –
i think it was me

I can taste . . . . . .


Daddy. no.

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