Pitter patter on the evening door seeks to wander
seeks to wonder what my time is for
and I'm watching in the window for the empty floor.
The static is creeping up my neck to break the sound
to find, search around for nerves that stopped
when they heard the clocks that make ripples
in the static
of the empty evening door.
Ticking turns to clicking of my body's mechanism
not alone but in a bubble and I know it isn't
real in the sense that it ought to be
and the dread seeping through and in my arms isn't free
but it's standing quite plainly right in front of me
I can see it, it's moving, but it's not to be,
it slinks away laughing when your eyes turn sideways
slinking and giggling in unison with you.
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