After-effects of war-times

Rendition I'm waiting empty in a cold house, with shamrocks, the cat and favored books, listening for the old thud of new boots gunning to kick- in this loose-hinged heart. The grasping hands of minions with much to lose, I imagine, close on me. They drag me, incendiary, into their infra-red night. Unopened mail and seed starts on the table is how my neighbors find me gone. No bloated stench. No skeletal sneer. Only a storm door banging mad in wind. by G. Karl Marcus