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The Horrible Thing

Why must it lurk

in darkened closets

with gnarled fingers

pale, cold, and clammy


or


just beyond

the bulb's flickering glow

at the bottom

of shadow-shrouded

basement stairs


or


under the bed

among discarded dreams


If I were some horrible thing

I’d simply wait

until you were

distracted

by something

perhaps even by


a poem




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