deepundergroundpoetry.com
The Swingman
Some nights, I wake
in ice and sweat. In the summer,
with a light immersing the corner,
I peer through a blanket scope
down the hall; television static
reverberates up the staircase,
and there he is.
His jagged outline smears into the walkway,
leaving me to dig sleep out of my eyes.
Tonight, he's bent at the waist,
perhaps growing too tall for this home, or that
just becoming his posture.
Eyes settle on me with a bare skull
jutting out at the craned end of his neck -
I'm fortified, but also
choking on my heart.
The manner of his arms reminds me of
two tall-case pendulums, knuckles
brushing the floor ahead of his feet.
As I lie mesmerized, his shoulders
begin to sway, and the monstrous hands he keeps
rock back and forth before him like
chimes in a decaying wind.
My gaze followed right to left,
over and over - every motion
shifting his feet in time with the metronome
down the hall, beneath the doorway,
feet from my bed.
His skin is bloodlessly white;
he's attached, and part of me understands him -
why he needs me - I'm three years old,
in no position to fight.
I just want to go to sleep -
we just want to go to sleep.
in ice and sweat. In the summer,
with a light immersing the corner,
I peer through a blanket scope
down the hall; television static
reverberates up the staircase,
and there he is.
His jagged outline smears into the walkway,
leaving me to dig sleep out of my eyes.
Tonight, he's bent at the waist,
perhaps growing too tall for this home, or that
just becoming his posture.
Eyes settle on me with a bare skull
jutting out at the craned end of his neck -
I'm fortified, but also
choking on my heart.
The manner of his arms reminds me of
two tall-case pendulums, knuckles
brushing the floor ahead of his feet.
As I lie mesmerized, his shoulders
begin to sway, and the monstrous hands he keeps
rock back and forth before him like
chimes in a decaying wind.
My gaze followed right to left,
over and over - every motion
shifting his feet in time with the metronome
down the hall, beneath the doorway,
feet from my bed.
His skin is bloodlessly white;
he's attached, and part of me understands him -
why he needs me - I'm three years old,
in no position to fight.
I just want to go to sleep -
we just want to go to sleep.
Published 12th Feb 2014
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