Your terror starts
promptly at 10 p.m.
with the blaring theme
of the local news
The room is dark,
you’ve read your books
and yet there is something
off
The grownups downstairs
your caregivers, your protectors
now impotent, powerless to sense
childish terrors long forgotten
The news marches on:
the world, the city, the weather
(dreary days ahead)
and your chest tightens
Because it’s time to talk
about tonight’s game, sports fans
almost time for the grownups
to go to bed
They’ll come upstairs, thinking
you’re asleep, and your shame
will stay your pathetic bleating:
aren’t you a little old for this?
Before long, they’re dreaming
grown-up dreams and
the house is a tomb for the day
now laid to rest
and in that evil stillness
you know I’m there
it’s just us now
at last
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