My Dripping Friend

When I was little I feared it.

I recall when we were first introduced.

I had been crouched by the campfire,

As Dad recounted a harrowing tale,

Describing in detail its gory presence:

The way it dripped red from its high place,

Illuminated from behind like a devilish halo!

I grew old,
The circumstances surrounding the horror eluded me.

Yet one image,

(The only one that mattered)

Remained branded in my mind.

The hand, no one knew how it got there:

Clutching the pull chain of the overhead light,

Dripping blood, it was fresh

And wriggled, still withholding life.

For years I averted my eyes.

I had an overhead fixture,

ceiling fan phobia,

Less I look up there,

And the hand be waiting for me,

Anointing me with its ruby liquid.

Gradually my fear, my obsession,

Metamorphosed into vision.

I eagerly invite guests to see my creation.

“With a simple command, the lights will turn on,”
I decree.

“Try it!”

I urge.

“Alexa, Google Home, Turn on the lights!”

They foolishly call.

Nonetheless, the lights turn on.

My dripping friend is a good host,

It makes sure my guests are at home.

Yet my dripping friend can be quite daft,

It never accounts for their reactions,

When they see:

Its gory presence,

The way it drips red from its high place,

Anointing my guests with its ruby liquid,

Illuminated from behind like a devilish halo.