There is an angry little boy
In the crawlspace under my house
I know this because
I can sometimes hear him scuttling in the dark
And I have seen his tiny footprints
In the soft mud
That the rain makes of the dirt sometimes.
He moves stealthily, but not with grace
And is loud when he rattles between the columns
He wears clunky shoes
And tends to cry out loud
When ignored, which he cannot be and never is for long
I want him out of my house;
But don’t know how to make him go
I think I know what he looks like
Blonde, with a dirty comma of hair
That sweeps low over his eyes
His eyes are blue, and sometimes red
His frame is thin, and wraithlike
There is fear in his eyes
But iron determination in his soul
He tends to move under the quietest rooms
And shake the columns with his whitened fists
When I am trying to concentrate
And even intellect and breeding cannot fight him
When he cries and seeks attention
He brings out the wrathful worst in me
The darkest soul; the one I thought dead so long ago
