Tonight's Poet Corner: The Creeper On The Second Floor

The Creeper On The Second Floor
by Belinda Roddie

I'm lifted from my bed by a hand
I cannot see. The invisible fingers prod
the dents and divots in my back, a textured
mosaic across my skin. I am being guided
to the window, where I see her dragging a
scratched oar across the watery mouth of

the canal. Just glancing at her is like receiving
a vaccine for the first time. I am protected

from all ills, the ache in my arm from the
metaphorical needle subsiding quickly, with
a warmth replacing the vacuum in my chest.
The palm concealed from my sight presses hard

into my shoulder, and I careen into the pane,
the imprint of my cheek lingering, my shallow

breaths fogging up the glass. She looks up briefly,
her eyes widen, and she rows faster, faster, until
she beats the current back and disappears from
my view. I am only a simple soul yearning for
more than a shadow to love me. I will keep
watching her when I can, while my imaginary
confidante gives me insight on when I can finally
claim her as my own.