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