Apparently, it’s very, very bad
to let a well-dressed man into your home.
An Oxbridge accent, coupled with the claim
your husband’s hurt, and he’s from Scotland Yard:
disaster! When the door clicks shut, he’ll drag
you off at knifepoint to his boat,
exsanguinate your body, write some smut
from Crowley on the walls, then eat your leg.

He’ll leave the rest of you inside a freezer,
to be discovered by a sad detective
bellowing, We made it here too late!

Too late indeed. I used to feel wiser,
more in charge, a little more creative.
Now, like the rest, I watch the door and wait.

This appeared in the July/August 2014 issue.