A luminescent streak
shocks the void.
I wrest free of the sheets,
lurch half-awake to the window.
There’s a man out there.
His Adam’s apple gives him away.
I palm a matchbook,
step out to check, coatless.
I don’t smoke. Not anymore.
It’s just well-rehearsed.
The night is sheer, complete.
*
“Someone gonna get that!?”
Jackie shouts from the toilet.
Thinks it’s the phone.
“It’s just TV, Mom! Cartoons!”
Gotta catch ‘em all.
“Why do we imagine monsters?”
David wants to know.
I could murder a cigarette.
“Go ask your mother.”
*
Kids’ parties are such brazen currency.
Cake, orange soda.
Franks and yellow mustard.
One little monster pissed in Jackie’s impatiens.
There’s a man out there.
He’s wearing my coat.
“Who’s that guy?”
a kid wants to know.
We buttress ourselves with lies.
Some are tiny yellow worms.
Some are dynamite sirens.
“The Magician.” I tell him,
flick a butt-end into the birdbath.
“Fucking lame.” he says,
chucks his dollar-store loot to the grass.
A flying saucer, nubivagant,
gives itself away.
