It Never Went Away

In daytime the cellar seemed safe,
whatever hid there, slept, or rested
or changed shape. The jars sat primly
on shelves, potato bin and apple barrel
breathed their odors, a mousetrap
guarded a corner, a smoked ham hung
from a beam, all friendly, at your service.
But at night it came out. Even armed
with a lantern you could hear it, a sigh,
scrape of claws, sudden shadow on the wall,
a slight hiss through bared teeth.
You climbed the stairs backward, lantern
held in front, daring it to come, afraid
to turn your back. Upstairs you were thankful
to be rescued. It still lay in wait, even when
you grew up and were ashamed to tell it.
You, late night comer, braced your foot
against the garage and fled for your life
to the back door, thankful for Carlo’s bark,
a chance to dry your sweat.

A man woke from a troubled dream, got up,
turned on all the lights, searched the house.
Stepped outside, fired his shotgun twice
into the darkness to say who is master here.