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.