No burglars came again last night
Just as they failed to come the night before,
and for all the nights I can remember
No burglars yet again although I listened,
as I always do, for them
Once more they did not oil and ease
the rusty bolt that holds the garden gate
Behind the shed beside the house
Nor did I hear them moving in the yard
at some hear-sobbing wretched hour.
It was the ticking of a clock upon my wall.
That sounded like the pad of evil steps a hundred feet away.
They did not creep inside, their blind-from-birth brutality
reduced to stealth and whispers
They did not stand above me.
Were not there with threats and ugly promises,
intoxicated by the scent of fear incontinent
Nor did they then, with weapons
that I meekly placed into their hands,
proceed to sever from my chilled insides the screaming child
who has evaded birth for so long now.
They did not not come
They were not there again last night.
And what if they should never come?
Such a waste of nights
I might have slept
But if I had, I feel quite sure
They would have come
Those burglars – oh, yes, they would have come.
From “Silences and Nonsenses – Collected Poetry, Doggerel, and Whimsy” by Adrian Plass. Published 2010 by Authentic Media
