Curfew

The house is too quiet, the hallway is wide,

with nowhere for a heavy old body to hide.

The dog’s bed is empty, the water bowl dry,

and I’m staring up at the dark with a sigh.

At two in the morning the floor starts to hum,

as the neighbor returns like the beat of a drum.

The garage door is grinding its rusty old chain,

a mechanical groan like a creature in pain.

Then the thud of the metal hitting the floor,

and I’m waiting to hear one more sound at the door.

But the motor goes silent, the vibration is dead,

and I’m just teeth in a very cold bed.