Kitchen Demon

I've never been good with anagrams,

those puzzles that scramble familiar words

into new arrangements of the alphabet.

But Thursday, turned inside out, becomes

Drusthay - not found in dictionaries,

yet perfectly named for something sinister.

He lives between studs and drywall,

waiting for nightfall to emerge slowly.

While we sleep, he licks clean

the stovetop's abandoned feast of crumbs.

His tongue is rough like sandpaper,

his fingers thin as wire whisks.

Sometimes I hear faint scratching sounds

when I'm alone late at night.

Perhaps he's growing impatient, hungry

for Thursday to come once more.

I should wipe my counters clean,

but part of me wants him fed.

There's comfort in knowing someone appreciates

even the messes I leave behind.