Night Crawler

Not in the least bit a literal poem.

Night Crawler

Creeping around in the dark
the sound of syran wrap eats at me
like the food it shields
from his greedy lips.
I jump to the sound of the ice tray
doing it's best
to pour frozen promises
from a broken spicket.
Broken dreams.
I wonder:
Does aluminum foil make less noise?

Tip toeing lighter than his high
to dig deep into the back
for food I've cooked
but he'll complain about.
I exhale to the taste
of moldy expectations
and a faucet
run frigid.
I muse:
At least there's something to write about?

Please! Go away! Night crawler bug
who trips over carpet lint
and makes my skin itch.
Go back to your cave,
night crawler bug!
Do you know: Broken souls are contageous?
I itch.
And I sigh:
The kids have never brought home head lice.

My ears, open wide,
listening for the night crawler
and wondering:
For how much longer?