Last Thing At Night
Great Aunt Emma, fearing an intruder,
would kneel down and push her stick
under the bed. Night after night, year after year,
there was nothing. But one night
Great Aunt Emma, squat in her winceyette,
pushing her stick under the bed
hit something soft, unyielding. Come out,
Friend, she said, I've been looking for thee
for fifty years.
Last thing at night I carry the cat upstairs
and open the window. Wind in the birches.
Yellow light from the carpark. I hold the cat
against my chest like a furry breatplate.
I shout: Is anyone out there?
He says, Nobody here but us chickens.
I say, Come on up then,
chicken.
