You heard sounds in the middle of night downstairs.
The clicking of hammers, drills, tiny saws.
If it was a prowler, why did you get up?
You could have been hurt.
You got up.
Downstairs the small men stare at you and ask,
'Why do you do this to us?
Now we must leave you.'
Afterwards you seemed changed, you said
You'd enlisted in the hunt for love,
Afternoons you set traps for love.
I know what came over you, how you wanted
To take that scene from the start and rewrite it,
You wanted a garden where the spattered bushes were.
But how would you make use
Of the black limb left behind, desperate
For the soothing scratch,
Alive?
Mike Finley
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-poem-hunter-2/
