Security

Plaster is no security.
The protection of brick is pierced.
Eye like a melon
peers in the picture window.
Finger prods the doorway, slips
into the foyer, rubs walls, knocks
a mirror, tips table. Glass crashes, the light
fixture smashes across the ceiling.

The spaniel is furious. She nips
at the fingernail scraping along the floor.
A tongue, like an angry eyeless
thing from the ocean, wipes the inside
of the garage picking up power tools,
old newspapers, cans of paint.

Now the house is spinning in his hands.
Force flattens us against walls.
One of us gets sick, another’s
hit by the falling fan. He
handles us with the certainty
of an automaton. Through
the doorway’s edge, the broken
window, we see the blurred lawn, the distant
street. We see his dark suit, the crimson
silk tie, the rectangular pin
on his lapel.