Stalker



Henry Augustus Emmanuel X
doesn’t want money and doesn’t want sex.
He waits in his car at the end of your street
silently, secretly, ever discreet.
He isn’t a flirter, he isn’t a talker.
He watches and waits, the sort of a stalker
who finds you wherever you happen to be.
His focus is you but he knows about me.
He's planning on something. Who knows what?
Uncertainty tightens the Gordian knot.
He monitors letters and emails too —
and all telephone calls. There’s nobody who
can block or avert the perpetual checks
of Henry Augustus Emmanuel X
who doesn’t want money and doesn’t want sex
but does want something. What might that be?
You don’t want to know. Take it from me.

Helena Nelson

If you have any thoughts about this poem, Helena Nelson  would be pleased to hear them