The monster awoke this morning:
broke loose from the cage
and is wandering the streets
of some anonymous small town
in Northwest Illinois.
And I will not chase him down again.
He and I and the world are all better
when he is not knocked out, stowed away,
forgotten in some dark corner of my Id
left to languish in some gray dream.
You cannot starve / what does not survive / on bread alone.
He greeted me in the mirror, wild haired
monstrously bushy eyebrows, deep set unrelenting eyes,
the face of someone who might appear familiar
if anyone has been paying any attention
at all. Have you been paying attention? At all?
You've all gone and done it, he says. / Waited one day too many / and now, and now
and now...
It's the anticipation that makes him pause
because he knows, lumbering the street,
looking oddly like a baboon on the hunt,
he will attract stares, and gasps,
and he will, undoubtedly, offend some
old farmer's wife or another
who does not understand there is more
to man than the collected hours he works
and whittles and the little bit he dies
each and every day. And some farmer
or another will be offended, too – because
they will never know the freedom
of walking through the world
without carrying the fear
that someone, somewhere
has found the secret to happiness
without waiting on god, on grace,
or on some nicely written obituary
outlining the predetermined brevity
of his long laborious days.
It's the anticipation that draws him out
and into the street – coming soon
to a store front, coffee shop, bar, or street corner near you.
He carries doom in one pocket / salvation in another
and you will not know
which he might be inclined to share
until you look him in the eye
and show him the the glimmering seat
of your soul, share the warmth of your heart
and accept without question –
even though you might find his grin
just a tad disconcerting.