by John Grey
Car breaks down on a lonely road
late at night.
This when the wolves emerge
from the woods,
sniff about.
White wisps appear
flitting from tree to tree.
Something is glowing
in the underbrush,
the eyes of some unknown creature.
And a man —
at least you think it’s human —
is tottering slowly down the road
towards you,
holding a lantern
that sways in his hand,
his pallid face,
red lips,
looming in and out
of its light.
Your cellphone has no signal.
Your nerve ends
more than compensate.
John Grey is a writer.
