When something bad happens
in a horror movie,
crickets stop chirping.
The audience doesn't need
a sixth sense. The sweat is slowly
coursing, trickling the creases
between their shirts and their backs.
Collectively breathing the audience
awaits the eminent attack.
And the groping prone couple
necks languidly while the jumpy
What happens in real life?
What are the relevant cues, the clues?
How do we know when we'll next be
paying unwholesome dues?
Does something foreboding appear
on the horizon? Do we squint into the dark
expecting to find something lurid to
focus our eyes on?
When we hear the unexplained creak,
do we startle, expecting familiar ghosts?
Are we uncharacteristically suspicious of
all of our hosts?
Do we walk backwards, glancing into
our own shadows?
When a cold breeze grazes the
skin on a stifling day,
do we somehow feel a crow
has been standing on our grave?
And then, do we grow silent?
Do we worry we shall never be safe or saved?
When we stumble, do we look for the obstinate
foot in our path? Are we the first, so quick to anger,
expecting some one to cause us wrath?
So much suspicion.
We are drenched in it.
What if something bad happened,
in the middle of my reading this poem?
Yes, listen, I think
the crickets have stopped chirping.
There's a tightening of the air inside
The four surrounding walls are breathing
Perhaps, you, the audience should have
all remained at home.
Instead of being lured in
by all of this bad poetry
and strong imagination.
Copyright May 13, 2013 All Rights Reserved By this Author
Melissa A Howells Meloo Tilt-a-World