Second Contact

When it knocks on the door again,
Do you answer it,
Or do you pull back
into the shadows
And blow breath
In short silent gasps?

Does it venture
Window to window
Peering through cracks
In the blinds?

Is the voice
A whining bray
Or the authoritative calm
With stuttering syllables
Of a call service voice?

Do you hear wind
Stirring dead weeds
And think it is a nail
Scratching against
The scabbed skin patch
Above its eye?

Does the dripping faucet
Remind you of fingers
Tapping against wood?

Does the ticking
Of the downstairs clock
Sound like something
That wonÕt give up,

No matter how long
You hold your breath
Or press your forehead
Into the wall?

Find more by Thomas Reynolds in the Author Index.

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