Sometimes, a stranger comes out from
behind a closed door,
blanket in hand,
toothy grin etched into his
worn out face,
and he takes a lunge toward me.
We thrash about on
my mother’s hardwood floor
(I worry we’ll scuff it up).
He manages to press the grimy
cloth against my face and I struggle
and gasp for air,
but I find
no solace.