By Edwin Heath.

The world is full of nice people.
Just now, like a moron, I imagined
That one crept by quietly under the table.
But yesterday, yesterday I know for a fact
That someone – maybe one of them! – knocked.

The hammering and departing sounds
Recalled me from deep, suspicious sleep.
“Wait!”, I croaked, stumbling out of bed:
And from the door espied some horizon-fled shadow.
“Are you a nice person?!!” I yelled, with all my breath.

At that moment, my homecoming cat
Chose to rub itself against my leg.