Cupboard

My cupboard would not be, by any standard held considered neat or clean, nor free of crumb or dust. But stores I keep abound, enough to nourish me and keep me warm on nights, when hope is all but gone. Across the hall there sits a basement door, unlocked Where things that should not be await the darkened night Their thrumming breath pulsates between the door and sill And sunlight dances on the kitchen floor all day My weary hands explore and blindly fish about With each extended palm I strain to make a choice The shelving seems to stretch as if to mock and scold And I retreat and turn and kick that basement door And when the sun has stretched itself from end to end She’ll tiptoe from the scene and leave her stage deplete. To let a chill set forth above the wooden berm beneath the door unlatched, ajar, corrupt, contempt. A stirring from behind the cupboard door escapes. Subconscious brutes waylay the precious things I keep as rations moan and shriek with horrors that don’t speak. I’d sleep but I cannot for all that heinous noise.