fear

In daytime you might see him on the street, 
his face like any passer-by's, or yours. 
He walks beside you on the cracked concrete. 

At night, you sleep behind triple-locked doors, 
troubled by traffic, sirens, distant screams. 

The second-story man invades your slumbers. 
Stealthily cutting the bars of your dreams, 
he steals your soul, and files off the numbers. 

Author's note: this poem appeared in the anthology Fresh Oil, Loose Gravel (compiled by Chris Losinger, Rochester, NY, 1993).