Whatever he's doing, he does it late
at night, and never comes out in the sun.
I've watched deliveries come in by the ton
in darkness, and always by the back gate.
Boxes, crates, some green oxygen tanks,
and other things I can't identify.
Then, once they're in, the hammerings and clanks
resound into the morning hours--but why?
A dungeon, or some private laboratory,
a secret workshop underneath the stair?
Last night I thought I heard across the street
a rumbling groan, and the fall of heavy feet
on damp earth--there's more to this weirdo's story.
Just what the hell is he building down there?
3 comments:
TCABG. :( A worser version of this excellent poem by Tom Waits: What's He Building In There? Read it instead.
oh, that's funny--i was just going to comment that this sonnet is very reminiscent of tom waits...
That song scares the bejeezus out of me every time.
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