Policeman at the door
backfire from a motorbike
next door’s penchant
for hammering –
never heard of screws
silently turning
nuclear submarine
lurking in the gloom
propellers torquing slowly.
Baseball bat to head
cricket bat to ball
crack of a pistol shot
criminal gang’s revenge
or start of a race
hundred metre sprint
all that power
for those few vital seconds
winner takes it all.
Shot glass slammed on bar
vodka jolt and anger
someone kicks the toilet door
with steel-toed boot
workman from the building site
pile driver clank
into the thick wet clay
we are drowning
in the foundations.
Finally I ask who’s there
no reply, no swat team
with battering ram
no enquiring woodpecker
offering to mend my roof –
I open up to nothing
but a sweet wrapper
naughty child
has knocked and run away.
Honour Stedman
May 2018
You were correct. It was Walter De La Mare, The Listeners that had a similar theme to your poem except that instead of phantom callers you have phantom callers. It is such a natural thing to imagine what might be that we don’t think of it as a subject but you did and it worked well.