Sonnet from the Porch de Guise

A fleck of dust—or skin? I cannot tell—
dive-bombs my cornea and sticks like glue
right in my field of vision, a Fresnel
to set the stage. The boogeyman is due.
I've tried, you know how stubbornly I've tried
to keep the windows latched, the closets shut,
the cellar door padlocked. I stay inside
and make no noise—not even breathing—but
the thing cannot be stopped. With eyes a-blur,
I hear him shamble in. My blood is ice.
Connubially close, his wheezing purr
caresses me: "So nice," he says. "So nice."
All reason slides translucent out of place
as Casey Affleck starts to eats my face.

(with considerable thanks to Stephen King)