Gray hides behind a door. He slants in nonchalance against the fabrics, then slinks to the floor in flight of the sun.
He rips a piece away and squeezes it behind a shouting print. Though flung across the ceiling, down-turned lamps ignore him. Still, no one sees. When they retire, he dances like wind chimes in the drapes, paints tears down their faces and floods their beds. He fills the soup pots and fingers all their food, their clothes, their treasures. The children see him in their toys.
In morning, he crawls beneath the sofas - dark slits watching.
submitted at 7:37pm
27 April 2009