by Tracy Davidson
I know that whistle. That thunk of ladder against wall, those heavy footsteps hitting every rung. But never at 3 a.m. before.
I’d heard he was ill, close to death. Guess not. Through thin curtains, I see the shape of head and torso. The squeak of his squeegee gets louder. Where his eyes would be, two glowing orbs cut through the curtain, their light creeping up my bedcovers. I try to reassure myself I’m dreaming.
Whistle, squeak. Whistle, squeak. Finally…silence. I rise, move to the window. Nothing. I sigh, relieved. Until…bare feet step on a soaking wet sponge.
Tracy Davidson lives in Warwickshire, England, and writes poetry and flash fiction. Her work has appeared in various publications and anthologies, including: Poet’s Market, Mslexia, Atlas Poetica, Modern Haiku, The Binnacle, A Hundred Gourds, Shooter, Journey to Crone, The Great Gatsby Anthology, WAR, In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights.