Tapping

A poem by Steve Korba

Photo by Skyler Ewing on Unsplash

It was a quiet night when last the door was locked
the only sound I heard — the ticking of the clock.
It was a lonely house since she had gone away,
the plants that she had loved, now shriveled in decay.

The center staircase loomed towards darkness and despair,
the portraits of the clan looked sadly at each stair.
And suddenly there came a faint metallic sound,
it’s tapping filled the air. I turned to look around.

From room to room I searched, till it grew louder soon.
I heard it by the door — that tinny tapping tune,
come from a metal vase with Trojan soldiers on it
and at the bottom lie the source of that tin sonnet.

Ah, company! I thought, to ponder on the world,
splayed on the vase’s floor with lacy wings unfurled.
I poured myself a drink, a double I recall,
and placed a napkin down on which he could just crawl.

He did not fly away but stood his ground and stared,
a beautiful thin wasp from desperation spared
His body parts so svelte, deliberate in design.
We stayed like that all night. I hoped he was benign.

He could have stabbed me sharp if he had so desired
but, seemed content to rest and stare as time transpired
Twas early in the day I’d felt lost and forlorn
and wondered to what purpose in the world I had been born.

And now the danger of a sting does capture my attention -
the locked in stare, the darkening night, the lovely mounting tension
The overwhelming crushing sense that pushes you straight down
to wallow on the basement floor, and in your tears to drown,
was banished in one quiet night as he and I did ponder
a magic night of quiet midst a splendid sense of wonder.

(A poem from the Wolrad collection #329)