is where it will happen.
A space that is sticky with dread.
Where empty is not vacant.
Where something waits to be said.
Esprits d’escalier hover,
haunting their missed chance,
itching for another
bite at circumstance.
The tap of a cane on the parquet.
A creak…on the stair.
The shade of someone else’s scent.
Someone else is there.
Now, in the hall where it happens,
something wants you here.
The leeches fasten and fatten.
Something whispers in your ear.
If you have any
thoughts on this poem, Joe Crocker
would be pleased to hear