The Monster Under My Bed

A poem about the fears that keep us from sleeping

THE MONSTER UNDER MY BED

Twelve inches beneath the frame
  from a gilded era,
a time before mind
  before all the round tables
  became warped and rotted,
         it waits,
         breathing,
    rancid, raspy, exhales.
Floorboards creak under its restlessness,
      its weight shifting positions.
Claws and teeth that once crunched
  under a waving swastika,
sharpen themselves on dreams
      caught on coiled springs.
There will be no sleep, no comfort, no making of love
                 tonight.
I need to watch, to listen, because nothing, not
          Mother Earth, whiskey, pot, ludes, crucifixes, garlic, salty skin, warm milk, promotions or prayers
         will dissuade it.