by Dawn Pisturino
Sometimes, at night,
I hear the rapping of knuckles on the front door,
Very softly but insistent.
Lying in my bed in fear,
I wonder who could be there,
Rapping on the front door.
I listen intently,
But the dog isn’t barking,
And when I pull back the curtains,
No one is there.
The rapping stops, and then I hear it again,
Rap, rap, rap, on the windowpane.
I try to figure out what else
Could rap on the windowpane besides a human being?
My father was not a harmless man when alive,
But he’s harmless now, after death,
Except the rap-rap rapping after dark
On the front door and the windowpane.
And sometimes, the wall. And then it stops.
But once, when I was sitting in a chair,
Reading a book,
The rapping started on the floor,
And I listened…
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