Wednesday, May 14, 2008

seven for fourteen

There is a monster who lives under the bed. He has a name, but he becomes angry when I use it, and he becomes even more angry if he thinks I've shared his name with an outsider, a visitor, a stranger. So, in deference to my monster, you won't learn his name, he is just the monster under the bed.

I don't know if he is the same monster that has always lived under my particular bed, if he has grown and moved with me, keeping tabs on the who's and wheres of my existence. I don't know if he would rather live in the closet or under the dresser or in the pipes of the radiator; and, if he would prefer one of these other residences, I don't know why he remains the monster under the bed. I don't know how I know that he is a he, and I can't recall when he transitioned from scary monster under the bed to indifferent monster under the bed to companionable monster under the bed.





reading:
"what makes us "human"?
heavy hearted
in the fresh light of morning
insomnia
something my parents had that I don't
no help for it now
...'There's a personal wisdom to strive for, apart from learning new ways with language.' [Mary Jo Salter]"

weather windy with a chance of summer