Stranger at the Door
A stranger came to the door to gather my statistics.
He wore a pilled jumper and carried a plastic identity card.
I let him in and now he has my name, my age, my income,
And he has stored them in his computer and taken them away.
How will he use my information? Or was he just the messenger?
Will it keep the wolf from the door or has he now the scent of me?
He has my number, though he did not have the appearance of a murderer.
I might have been wearing a touch of red.
He went off-script, his old mother likes to write.
I kept my responses short and dishonest, blunt and abrupt.
I stood and opened the door. He knows where I live.
Perhaps I should have been kinder about his mother.
My aim is not sharp.