The Brush Draggers
by Thomas D. Reynolds
I was five.
We were just setting down to supper
when his body filled up the door,
breath coming in fevered coughs,
hammered knocks shattering dusk.
no taller than this knees
gripping the fork of an oak limb,
scraping the sides against the cabinet
and muttering obscenities.
equally sullen and evil-tempered,
a line of dwarf-like men or elves
pulling brush across the carpet,
through the rooms and out the front.
I told myself as I watched his breath
expelled in spasmodic gasps,
fist pounding the solid table —
that's what they were, to him.
Copyright © 2005 by Thomas D. Reynolds