Footsteps at my door

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I was awoken last night
From the deepest of sleep
Devoid of dream
By a strong feminine presence

I heard
With ears sharpened by the dullness of slumber
The softest of footsteps outside my door

Light and lithe yet hesitant with uncertainty
She stopped at my door and waited, listening
As I listened and waited

Her raised hand lingered and lowered, lingered and lowered
As if arguing the rationality of knocking on a sleeping mans door
With the most irrational of senses

She turned to leave
Stepped back
Hesitated slightly
Then gave in to the rational and left more quickly

As a reward for giving in to her fears, she silently tripped on the mudflap I leave leaned against the pallets that are my porch to prevent the dogs leash from becoming entangled

(“If I were to move it” I ask myself now “to a more welcome position, would it then only provide further entanglement?” And so decide to leave it alone)

She hurriedly straightened it in a form
(I discovered this morning)
More apt to trip and to catch up the dog

(Which evidence I now offer
As proof of her arrival)

Then quietly as she arrived
she disappeared

Moments later I heard a car door close stealthily in the distance
As if that argument continued into the darkness that finally drove her home

Yet for an hour or so after she’d gone
I could still feel her presence

A gentle reminder
That I am alone

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