Only myself

From darkness, at the edge of hearing:

What might be voices
but is just leaky windows,
rubbing door jambs, a dog's sleeping belly-murmurs.

But I reach for the pistol under the pillow
or knife or bat.

Grip the handle
fingering, palming, tightening, tensing
white-knuckling, straining to listen, to hear
what isn't there.

I could get up and check the house.
Jiggle knobs and pad softly.
Peer around corners and squint at shadows.
Climb back into bed, assured.

But I lie still.
Now I am caught between
the terror of being murdered in my sleep and
the terror of looking foolish, if only to myself.