Skeletons

7:30 a.m.
dim red light
of the clock radio,
noise cracks through
the early morning stillness,
reaching out little fingers
to interrupt sweet dreams,
the day begins.
stiff body arises from the thick
blankets,
glances over at the closet,
ready to face the daily
rituals that await him.
as he readys himself to
wash off the night's
perspiration,
dreams of the little fingers that scratch
at the wooden door at the dark corner
of the room,
fingers that wait to be noticed.
as he finishes his morning traditions
of preparation for a day in defined society.
now to open that door,
that aboding feeling washing
over him,
a heaviness almost placing him
upon the ground.
his hand grips the door,
opening it,
peering into the dank,
dark hole,
taking for himself the garments
he wishes to display for the next 12
hours.
then that hand,
those boney fingers reaching out into the morning light,
reminding him that it's still there,
alive and well,
resting in the dark recesses of his heart,
it's permanent address