The Thing That Lived in the Upstairs Hallway
a sonnet by Rebecca Grabman

Two snake-like tubes protruded there like arms
And wound their way into my father’s face.
It stripped him of his easy grin and charms,
It breathed in him, and took away his grace.
The monster sucked in air and fed it through
Its coiling limbs, on into father’s lungs
Until we could replace the old with new.
It clicked and clanked, it thumped and throbbed and thrummed.
Off to Atlanta, bound together tight.
I woke next morning; both of them were gone–
Were locked in battle for the grueling flight–
And stayed like that until the new day’s dawn
When both of them were dead and left, unplugged,
Just leaving tiny imprints in the rug.