Sneaking into the House After Midnight
by Ben Tyrrell
The tip-tap of my soft-soled shoes
seems stentorian to my timid ears
as I skip a step to try to stop a
Creak
issued from the sunken staircase.
The rustle of my silk suit
across still tapestries,
sticking out, staining the walls;
sickly timbre of timber sinking into my eyes
as I skip a step smartly,
kicking a stair,
seizing the banister,
staring into the solid dark
to see what startled Stalinist
comes to shatter the silence
with a slap and a
Crack
of a slammed door.
