Lie on a blanket on
damp grass at dusk
watch for bats
try to catch the moment
they first appear and swoop
several, then hundreds
dark, barely perceptible
against the carbon sky
The galaxy hangs low
you can almost reach
a small hand out and touch a star
night sounds, crickets, an owl
the prickling uneasiness of dark
the only light from the stars and
a bulb beneath the eaves
of the summer kitchen
Time for ghost stories
familiar as an old pair of boots
more frightening with each telling
each blood-dripping embellishment
cold fingers play down your spine
hide under the blanket and beg for more
Run down the basement
smell mortar and century stone
brush cobwebs, dangling spiders
sense sow bugs rolling like marbles
on the dank dirt floor
grab an India Pale Ale by the neck
flee up the wide plank stairs
give the bottle to Uncle Pete
in exchange for another story
From Tower Poetry, Vol.55 #1
