Is It Still There?

I haven't moved from this spot in an hour,

from this splintered park bench,

my hair and clothes drenched from an afternoon shower.

I left my umbrella under the seat in the car,

parked several blocks away,

across the street from a quiet bar.

I had started my day there, had a few beers,

until the image of myself drinking alone

brought me close to tears.

So I left a 20 on the sticky bar top and took my leave,

wandering down streets pimpled with puddles

and avoiding rain water splashing off rooftop eaves.

I found this park bench laden with gum and mud,

took a seat and had myself a good cry

surrounded by fresh cut grass and trees just starting to bud.

And that's when I felt it, a prickling sensation on the back of my neck,

like an army of ants had crawled up my spine.

I had to swipe my hand across the skin to check.

But it wasn't ants, nor any bugs at all. Nothing was crawling on me.

It was that tickle you get when something feels off,

like you're being watched, your instincts telling you to freeze or flee.

I felt something behind me, behind the bench,

back in the trees maybe, staring at the back of my head, sizing me up.

I froze, I wouldn't turn around to look at it. But there was a foul stench.

The smell reminded me of dissecting frogs back in high school,

mixed with rotting potatoes lay forgotten in the kitchen tater chest.

The odor made me gag and spit up drool.

And that's where I stayed, glued to that bench, panicked and scared,

knowing if I turned around something terrible would happen.

I wouldn't dare.

Hours went by and I still hadn't looked, but I knew it was moving closer.

Every inhale I took my nostrils recoiled, the hairs burning away

as the smell filled the air around me, stronger and grosser.

The sun set behind the buildings across the street

and I knew I'd have to move sooner or later.

So I got up from my seat.

It was the longest walk of my life,

and as I rounded every corner, I swear I could hear footsteps

close behind, cutting through the quiet like a knife.

I still refused to look back.

Looking back would make it real.

It was safer to ignore, leave it behind in the inky night black.

I could see my car now, still parked by the bar,

and my keys jingled in my hands as I fumbled for the right button.

I was feet away, I could see the dent in the side door. Not far.

Soon I'd be home safe and sound.

I'll be more prepared next time, carry mace maybe?

I'll go with friends, never alone. I like having friends around.

If I could just find the right button, damn these keys!

I can almost reach the door handle.

I know I'll be laughing about this tomorrow, and---

***