01 October 2019

Postcard 180

I was a stranger and you did not invite me into your home

Your home is full of strangers
Thieves are honored at your table-head
Scorpions nest under the boards

Predators tuck your children into bed,
hand searching under quilt
while they tell them comfort stories
and kiss them on the head

Hat in hand, I stood
in simple need outside your bolted door
I could hear the muffled wolfish voice of
a vaunted liar spooling tales
and pacing on your well worn floor

There's strangers then there's strangers
There's stories then there's lies
That uncle that is known by all
though none dare meet his eyes

I feel the chill creeping toward the bone
The moon is drifting down
and your home is yes a home
But the warmth is a deceit

The consumptive man,
cloth book in hand
coughs hate and ill in every ear
The warmth is breath of that disease

You welcome and you honor crooks
of every varied stripe and deed
But fear the stranger at your door
with simple creature's need

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