I’m fond of monsters, modern & ancient,
but only monsters who know their nature.
It’s not the wild eyes, but those that’r vacant
that signal the most dire kind of danger.
I tracked one once across a snowy heath,
and when the winds did shift, it caught my scent.
It could’ve wheeled about, baring claws and teeth,
but it had a sniff and moved on – content.
Did I dare stalk the beast any further?
Was I being led into an ambush?
Did it seek concealment for my murder?
And then the break — a gasping air inrush
A sudden realization, I’d been duped,
and was pursuing myself in a loop.
Lumbering lunatic slogs
through the moonlit woods.
If it comes upon a farmhouse,
a chicken or
a goat or
a girl or
They’ll find only buttons and belt buckles,
and maybe loose feathers.
It’s a monster in scale and disposition.
[National Poetry Month: Poem #7]