When he enters,
You don't hear it at first.
Because why would you think to listen?
He watches from the curvature
Your house in the valley between hemispheres.
Man, beast, disease,
Whatever you wanna call him,
(He'll answer to anything)
He walks softly towards the front door.
Every step a land mine,
Every movement an explosion ,
But it sounds like thunder in the storm
And he revels in the rain.

When he knocks,
It's entirely too late and too early
And you're home alone
And he knows that.
When you open the door,
He towers hunched.
His skin is ash grey
But in the dark of night and storm,
He appears bright and warm and friendly.
His salesman suit hangs loose and wet off his sinewy body.
It hides the harshness of his angularity.
His hand is cold and clammy when he shakes yours.
When he smiles, he hides his fangs behind his tongue.
When he speaks, he's slow and gentle and endearing.
He talks of grandiose things and you nod along.
You know he's selling something but you trust in his pitch.

You watch as he shivers but don't see its calculation.
You don't hesitate to invite him inside,
Because no one thinks a killer kind.