Inconspicuous at eye level,
faintly beating metronome
standing upside down,
it hung from a fluorescent light’s
plastic screen.
The stairwell’s ugly-cute
thorn-thumbed fruit slipped the gloves
and squirmed away behind the screen,
clicking like a Geiger counter,
claws clattering.
A voice came through,
solicitous and a little amused,
patient but implacable.
The screen came off
like a roof lifting away.
Doomed delivered sinner,
it rose cradled like a prayer,
its sharp tiny white teeth
working out its estate
against Love’s rough glove.