The uninvited guests and intruders <br />that call in the night and rudely pluck us <br />from the body of sleep are legion. <br /> <br />The neighbours making-up inside, <br />their cats making war outside, <br />are but a few of the guest stars and plot lines <br />in the nocturnal soap opera <br />which we, the audience, are obliged to endure. <br /> <br />But to be woken in the night <br />besides a disembodied arm, <br />some dismembered upper limb <br />is an alarm call which never fails to amuse. <br /> <br />A corpse remains, but its essence, its armness, <br />its ethereal mojo, has made off into the night. <br />Without leaving so much as note <br />to say where it has gone <br />or what time to expect it back. <br /> <br />It is deaf to my commands to rise <br />and shed its shroud of death, <br />and as I lift it from its steel slab, <br />and feel its limp cold flesh <br />I begin to speculate. <br /> <br />What was it that came in the night <br />and disconnected the cables and wires <br />from the sockets of the senses? <br /> <br />Or maybe, taking female form, <br />it slipped silently from the bed <br />and is standing outside under the streetlamp, <br />its orange half-glow sweetly illuminating the fit of her jeans. <br />The dizzying altitude of her high-heeled boots. <br /> <br />Like a bird of prey, its return will be slow and silent. <br />But as assured as the healing onset of spring, <br />after winter’s bite. <br /> <br />It begins with a gentle scratching at the door. <br />Then the teeth of a key, lifting the pins <br />in the hasp of a lock. <br /> <br />Then just as a final piece of a jigsaw <br />drops satisfyingly into place to complete the picture, <br />the spectrum of colour and sensation is restored. <br />He hangs up his coat under the stairs <br />and casts his shoes into a corner. <br /> <br />(www.mcsspace-mc31.blogspot.com)<br /><br />Matthew Coombe<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dead-arm/
