by Jakob Chapman
Marmalade digits
push the icebox door
closed
extinguishing the light
half-past midnight
the anthropomorphic insomniac
scarfs a sandwich
listening as Mr. Brown
begins to snore
bear feet
patter up the steps—
creep beside the bed
sticky paw
slipping over the nose
the mustached mouth
quenching the noise
the body growing
deathly still
under the weight
he gathers his
slouch hat
situates it tight
between his keen ears—
waking no one
with the creaking door
trying so hard
to get things
right.
Jakob Chapman is a senior from Harn Lake, Minnesota. He likes relaxing at home with his lovely wife Mandy Lou, drinking Malzbier, and writing. His poems have been published in MindFlights, The Rapids Review, and Salmagundi.
