I can see Hitchcock's bloated face on my aching knee:
I know it's just a bunch of wrinkles in the
frayed fabric of my jeans.
But what am I to make of the black
shoe I see when I shift my gaze an inch or
two toward the east? I don't wear black
shoes. Is Norman Bates' mother paying me a friendly
call? Will this be a Happy Halloween?
Is this meant to be my final scene?
And whatever happened to Janet Leigh?
Poem Copyright 2018 by Dylan Mitchell
