Open Windows

At night I would lie in bed,
the spotlight outside my open window
cast shadows like black stick figures
which danced elongated on the walls of my room.
One night I woke to a knock at the front
door, then the sound of my father greeting
the town's Constable. Suddenly his voice
became the low growl of a dog,
and the door's slam sent vibrations which
seemed to move my bed. He called upstairs,
reporting the fine to my mother, his words running like
lava, and she telling him to calm. His
shadowed silhouette bobbed in black
on my wall, the clacking of
hard steps filled my ears,
then was replaced by his voice
from the neighbor's lawn calling
the man outside in a fit of anger that
would leave spittle on the chin, eyes
bloodshot, his Irish face the red of Hearts. I
remember my mother's sobs, then my
father cursing the man who
would not leave his house. I lay in bed,
watching my father's shadow
grow larger on my wall, then heard
the front door open and slam again.
I got up from bed, crept to the window
and silently slid it shut,
then pulled down the shade.

J.R. Corrigan

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