Runcible Spoon

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Look about the cabin,

quiet in its resolve

to reveal little

of the mayhem seen.


The plank door lies unhinged

near the huntsman’s remains.

A single gas lamp

renders him grotesquely.


Nothing has been taken.

His skiff bobs in its slip

as the pond awaits,

but the wait will be long.


And he does not listen

as the steel covered roof

amplifies raindrops

from branches overhead,


propelled by ghostly gusts,

inclined in their falling

to dancing rhythms

briefly, brightly beating.


The killer trots away

blithely, on massive paws,

having satisfied

his curiosity


though finding the huntsman

a pitiful trophy,

easily taken

but unappetizing.