Intricacies of the Mind — something polite comes up through the pipes

It came not over field or hill, nor through a window left ajar. It rose where all the pipes run still, where drowned and dreaming creatures are.

Three knocks beneath the bathroom floor, a held breath — then three knocks again. The whole of Marrow heard the door that has no hinge, no lock.

Old Tom bent down to find the leak. The water reached and took his hand. By dawn he'd changed the way he'd speak, with that slow pause they understand.

The baker turned. The vicar turned. Their wet eyes shone a sickly green. The kettles boiled. The lamps still burned. And nothing in the street looked mean.

They waved you in. They poured the tea. They kept the taps run soft and low. "Come closer, love. Don't mind the key. The drains get lonely down below."

No blood. No scream. No struggle shown. No stranger crossed that line of green. The village stands — but grown alone. One breathing thing. One hidden queen.

So mind the gurgle in the night, the three soft knocks, the breathless pause. It does not need its teeth to bite, nor lift a single one of its claws.

It only needs the open drain, the patient pipe, the trusting throat. It pours itself inside your brain and wears you like a borrowed coat.

...wears you like a borrowed coat.