Scream

by Tom Hatch

The fog burns off the early morning
Message that you sent me making it
Clear that you stared at those fallen leaves
Flattened on the flag stone by the rain
Patterned to form hell's faces something out of
Bosch crippled from gluttony or lust
Penciled in cannot be erased then stroked in oil
Painted with brushed frustrated varnish
Hardened so long ago and yellowed

This is the way you stare at me
When you are mad and about to scream
But I scream first of heavy fright
Waiting for the leaves to decompose
With tapping sound of fingers
Dripping from the down spout