By Christopher Shiner
The uncertainty in my gut is always an unwelcome guest.
He struts around, clucking along to Richard Wagner’s
“Ride of the Valkyries”, which he
blares much too loud for my tastes.
Its bombastic vibrations crash against the
inner lining of my stomach
and ricochets out towards my fingertips
and that small section midway up my spine,
like a billion hairs standing on the ends of my insides.
I’ve had to soundproof my skin
to keep the neighbors from noticing,
but then the silence makes the effect that much more unnerving.
He moves in about an hour before you come over,
and insists on staying the rest of the day after you’ve gone. He never cleans up after himself,
just leaves his shit strewn over the bed of my dignity,
and along the floor of my self‑confidence.
And I’m left with only one certainty
That next time
I refuse to answer the fucking door.