Mr. Frost

The cellar,
is far more suitable than the attic,
but if they prefer the attic -let them have it.
It makes no difference to me.

Rattling down the staircase after dark.
Running dry chalky fingertips
along split cracked walls.

Standing motionless
behind closed doors
with only blackness in their eyes.
As if salvation lay on the other side.

How wonderful amusing they are,
but their echoes become fewer
as the days grow long.

Until they no longer speak the name,
Mr. Frost

and I know, it's time to kill again.