Wednesday, March 14, 2007

#325: March 14, 2007

They still don't know what happened to the kid,
but I remember everything: the way
the air felt hot and close on us that day,
gray-bottomed clouds all pressed down like a lid.

He turned to me just as the ground grew wet
with that first rain, his fevered eyes alight,
his fingers round my wrist, the knuckles white
and whispered of my promises and debt.

"Don't let 'em come!" he groaned. "I seen 'em, John!
All white as grubs and screechin' just like bats!
Those eyes!" He choked, and that was all he said.
Next day I went to look, but he was gone.
Blood on the porch; they said it was a cat's.
An offering. Still, though--the kid is dead.

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