You heard sounds in the middle of night downstairs. <br />The clicking of hammers, drills, tiny saws. <br />If it was a prowler, why did you get up? <br />You could have been hurt. <br />You got up. <br /> <br />Downstairs the small men stare at you and ask, <br />'Why do you do this to us? <br />Now we must leave you.' <br /> <br />Afterwards you seemed changed, you said <br />You'd enlisted in the hunt for love, <br />Afternoons you set traps for love. <br /> <br />I know what came over you, how you wanted <br />To take that scene from the start and rewrite it, <br />You wanted a garden where the spattered bushes were. <br />But how would you make use <br />Of the black limb left behind, desperate <br />For the soothing scratch, <br />Alive?<br /><br />Mike Finley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-poem-hunter-2/
