As little children,
we learn soon
of the horrors
that go bump
in the night:
Of Whitcomb Riley’s gobble-uns,
and Herr Hoffman’s Struwwelpeter,
(Edward Scissorhands, perhaps)
Ed Gorey’s tiny Gashlycrumbs,
the Bogeyman—and Twyla, too,
freshman at Monster High—
and the haunted dictionary in the guest room
closet.
(I thought it was a Bible.
The pen is indeed mightier.)
The wind blows cold and strong along the rivers.
Stray headlights throw muntins and mullions along our walls.
Tree branches fingernail the panes.
Breath, heavy, underneath our beds.
The floors
creak.
Walls shift.
Foundations settle.
Yet though we thrust our fists against the posts,
the monsters are also asleep.
They,
too,
tire.
They serve in the Senate.
They work in industry.
They head households.
They live on Nextdoor.
They captain the Neighborhood Watch.
Their mirrors are no different than ours.
In the bright light of day,
they see,
not monsters,
but men
even though the Four Horsemen run payroll.
Conquest fears the community.
War shrinks from peace.
Famine bristles at plenty.
And Death clocks in the moment we first draw breath.
Their jobs are easy.
We do their work for them.
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