Spitballs

The Beggar

The wind is the beggar shivering on my door

His teeth gnawing at my eardrums

His feet shuffle along the porch

Prodding the door as it comes off in short, chunky bits

"Let my soles scrape your floor," he mumbles

His voice is raspy and hot

"Let my tongue lick your glasses" he says

His palms are clawing at the door

Slivers dig under his fingers

"Let my hands dirty all that you have," he whispers, "and all that you are"

His eyes are a descending blackness

His arms do not relent against the door

They pound against the cracks that hold the wood together

After years, years of the throbbing of the beggar against my door

I will open what is left of the wood

And he will run out onto the floor

But his feet won't scrape the boards

He will reach for the glasses

But the cupboards will be empty

And then he will reach for me

To latch onto my skin

And pull at my soul

My soul that will feel warm and white and scream in his hands

But the house will be silent

And I will be gone

I will have left with the wind