my baby boy sees monsters
everywhere, from behind his dresser
to under my chair.
monsters, he assures me,
without any care.
one day, the monster might be green, with
a dozen tentacles and a rabid sheen.
the next day, the monster is nearly a ghost,
he has spikes for hair
and can devour his host.
some mornings, the monster is me,
as i fall out of bed, hair a bastille riot,
attitude shaky, ambling still in half-sleep
across the barren steppe of my bedroom
like some five foot frankenstein.
i ply my boy with bowls of steaming mussels,
his favorite dish, and still
the monsters come, monsters light and dark,
monsters that followed us home,
from the park.
monsters, i have to say, do exist.
they sit smug in boardrooms,
and have white hair.
they become politicians,
and act like they care.
they plot bloody massacres,
with no life to spare.
they act like they're married,
then have an affair.
there may be a monster deep in loch ness,
rumors of a bigfoot with tracks that are fresh.
in the himalayan heights, there might be a yeti.
"do monsters like to eat spaghetti?"
says he, slurping noodles loudly,
saving the few precious meatballs for last.
my baby boy sees monsters,
sees them everywhere,
they are indeed quite vicious
and prefer not to share.
