Doubt clung to you
Like fruit to the vine
Plucked green,
You saw it rolling down the supermarket aisles.

You clocked the bloody swing
Of butchered brothers
In the storefront windows.

You walked, slippered,
Even in the rain
Because you had
Rooms of shoes to fill.

Postmen lay in wait for you. Their sacks
Engorged with suffering.
And bit your heels
Like the neighborhood dogs you knew.

Still, they wondered. At
Your shuttered windows.
The furnace fires stuffed back in the matchbox.

Puzzled at your spattered sidewalk.
Foot-printed pages like dirt on snow.

What they did not know.

Yours. No private hell.
The nightly knocks. The constant bell.
Your countless silent visitors
In endless come and go.

(My regards to artfuldodger for the constructive criticism!)

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