My Intruder

Nights like these keep me up despite my fight,
death of my parents, my siblings, my beloved all keep me up till daylight.
Miscarriages, violent suitors, my missing breast,
All ritually haunt me like ghosts who are intent to molest.
Being widowed and old is a special type of lonely. It’s baneful.
With no children to look after me and one less wrinkle
than is needed to rest me in a “home,”
I have too many wits to show some old age syndrome.
Alone I’ve been for years,
coming back home was my choice of fears. 
Now it’s 3am and I have a visitor,
out in the rain and dressed as a freed prisoner. 
Daily releases at the town’s “big house,”
always worried me and my late spouse.
Once comforted by the warmth of my husband,
I find myself chilled by my reality; alone and not bastioned.
Now he paces from window to window,
blank contemplation haunts the face of this fellow.
My unease may be soothed by a call
to the police. “CAN YOU PLEASE HELP? SOMEONE IS OUT IN THE RAINFALL!”
“Stay on the line ma’am. Help is on the way in ten minutes.”
Ten minutes!? Ten minutes!?
An hour would have given me equal hope.
And now he has chosen his window and pulled out a rope.
I must go get my gun.
My intruder will soon see what will become his bargain.
Glass crackles like rain on my tiles,
His head poking through, peeping eyes in riles.
Shoulders now maneuver through the passageway,
“GET OUT OF HERE! I WILL SHOOT YOU! GET OUT OF MY HALLWAY!”
I close my eyes and will two pops,
my intruder slinks back into the raindrops.
He stands outside, grabbing his arm,
he stares back at me with eyes full of harm and sees my silver sidearm.
Pacing agitatedly, my intruder is in my front yard,
“HE WON’T GO AWAY AND NOW HE’S GOING TO THE BACKYARD!”
“Stay calm ma’am, police are a short distance away!
Please don’t shoot again, we must keep them out of harm’s way!”
“I CAN’T SEE HIM ANYMORE! I THINK HE IS AT THE FRONT DOOR!
NO, PLEASE LEAVE ME ALONE! POLICE WILL BE HERE FOR SURE!”
There are too many ways in for me to secure them all,
out of sight and shadowed by nightfall,
my intruder is now in control.
My only salvation is with this pistol.
A smashing in the back of the house sinks my heart,
I rush to the scene, ready to defend only to find I’ve been outsmart.
“HE’S IN THE HOUSE NOW,” my whisper draped in pall.
“Stay calm and hide to bide time, if you must, crawl.”
The pantry is too obvious and the kitchen is too open.
I duck in the corner of the cabinets next to the bar and basin.
I’ll see him make the turn and shoot him dead.
This silence is as thick as lead.
I hang up the phone to ensure my quiet,
But why does it always have to beep with every digit?
I feel the burn around my neck,
the rope came from above, it’s giving me gooseneck.
My intruder lifts me up above the tabletop and over the bar,
I feel my back snag the filled dish drying rack causing more than a scar.
He loops the rope around my throat and betters his grip,
he screams with rage as hard as he pulls the rope, causing my skin to unzip.
Having lost my salvation, I’m passed the point of fear and decide to stare at him,
I’ve been through too much; I’m refusing to give him the satisfaction of my grim.
As I feel my throat cave in I hear my front door crashing in,
“Police, don’t move! I have a gun pointed at your fucking chin!”
Hope and triumph have begun to be restored
I may actually live through this psychopaths’ bloody rancor.
As my intruder eases on his clutch,
I see the officer survey without recognition of the such.
He looks me in the eye and gives me a reassuring grin,
“Back-up is on the way so your time is thin.
You know you are going to die tonight for what you have created here.
But before you do, I’ll let you finish what we started here,” he said with a sneer.
My pride and strength melted away with this incantation of dread.
My intruders’ malice fluttered in his eyes as he attempted to behead.
He chomps down on my nose, paring it and cheek from old bone.
Blood begins to gargle my vacant attempts at breath and moan.
My faux hero is aroused, fixated on my peril
Gun pointed at my intruder, willing and able.
One more primal tug of his garrote,
My spine shatters, my flesh ruptures and my hero’s gun is shot.
Category:Poetry
Category:Crime
Category:Mental Illness