10,000 storm drains in the city,
one for every year It has survived
clean in a nest of deadlights, eyes
matted with sleep-dirt and madness.
Nothing so bad as arachnid legs
folded beneath Itself, nothing
so bad as a mummy shambling
from angular shadows. Not
so bad but worse, just time
in the form of fear and bone.
Flash of yellow slicker and
matching circus balloons, stuck
in the most unlikely place, yet
you keep walking. You know
better than to let this town
have your imagination, because
the smell of rain reminds you
of little boys hanging stars,
lazy spin of a tricycle wheel
in a pre-storm crackle.
Here the fecundity of evil
can almost be seen, in the spread
of willful disregard and tight smiles because
they know. Of course they know.
Amanda Crum can be followed on Twitter @MandyGCrum.