The Man Across the Street

Every night I look across the road

at the little man with the gun
His coat melts into the shadows
His eyes glint in the street lamps.
          sickly yellow pools of light.

I see him there; he looks through me
with cold eyes - unforgiving.
He already used his ticket,
on the Old Black Train,

so now he comes to me,
and I peek through my curtains.
Praying one day he'll leave
But he won't. of that I am certain

I freeze in his gaze; he does not smile.
I fester in my debauch thoughts...
          Can't he see me?
He makes no sign.

His gun feels heavy in his holster, I know
I felt its weight
when I put it there.
every night he inches closer...