When There’s Wonder Left At All
I remember a night light in the corner
of my room to frighten little dust mites. They gave the monster
under my bed a terrible sniffle whenever they wandered
near. He would sneeze, and I’d say God bless,
though I wasn’t sure he cared.
In case his nostrils were bothered by flakes
drifting sleeplessly through air so sheepishly, and should
he care to sneeze and I offer blessings of deity, I always kept a box
of tissue handy. He not only sneezed, but cried
at length too, and I too, cried too. I felt for him but would never
know what sadness a demon-looking-stranger might know,
maybe it was that he was stuck under a twin sized bed
in my american city.
The night light waned
one time. Dust mites went near its flickering.
Then it died, and the monster contracted a terrible
head cold. My mother said good riddance but I pleaded
with her to get a doctor to make a house call.
My mother said that this was America
early twenty-first century and no well intentioned doctor made house calls.
I would settle for my father in a chef coat to check-up on monster.
He said the beast was terminal, and would probably die
soon. I begged him to make him well, my father shrugged sure.
He gave me a piece of composition paper. He’d written
a diagnosis: a case of the gloomies.
And the treatment: no sleeping near teddy bears.
My mother came by a whole one year on to kiss me
goodnight, she bothered a good night to monster
under bed. I told her it was silly, nothing was there. She patted
me on the head, and began to cry. She said time caused her to cry.
Adults can be pretty funny sometimes, I told her I couldn’t wait to be a funny adult too.
She then told me that that was enough
such foolishness, that I should stay a child eternal, like peter pan
she told me, never grow up. Always believe in monsters under beds, the comforting
power of night lights to fight off dust mites. But I’d thrown out
my night light in the garbage bin.
