The Snitch

I’m holding my shoes so I don't make a sound.

The moon is a sliver that’s barely been found.

I’m creeping past doors where the sleepers are deep,

trying to steal back the hours of sleep.

But right by the bathroom, the floorboard is loose.

It lets out a groan like a neck in a noose.

The wood gives a quarter-inch under my weight,

shouting my name to the hinges and gate.

I freeze in the hallway, a ghost in the hall,

watching the shadows stretch out on the wall.

The house is a witness that won't hold its tongue,

reminding me lately that I’m not so young.