Chiller
       

Seven a.m. The hunter's moon
a scarface falling down the sky
in knife-edge dark. A siren sounds
its bad-suspense-film leitmotif.
In porch light on the paving stones,
trench-coated for my working life,
I pull the doorknob (opening scene,
take twenty thousand), turn the key.
The dead hand of a pin-oak leaf
crabwalks across the alleyway.

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Copyright © 2013 Maryann Corbett All rights reserved
from Credo for the Checkout Line in Winter
Able Muse Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission