RenditionI m waiting empty in a cold house,with shamrocks, the cat and favored books,listening for the old thud of new bootsgunning to kick- in this loose-hinged heart.The grasping hands of minionswith much to lose, I imagine, close on me.They drag me, incendiary,into their infra-red night.Unopened mail and seed starts on the tableis how my neighbors find me gone.No bloated stench. No skeletal sneer.Only a storm door banging mad in wind.by G. Karl Marcus I look him over and almost want to...