run while you can

Tucking in your toes.

Monsters for my head in my closet. The Last Spooner Household. Spring 2010.

You seem anything but at ease,

pushing your hair here and there.

I can see sweat accumulating on your nose

and imagine there is much more beyond my sight.

Just like me. In the night. As a boy.

Afraid of being the only one awake.

Little girl, relax.

My mother told me this:

“Begin with your toes; end with your eyes.

Tell them all to sleep. Tell them this:

To cease to quiver/to no longer shake.”

I tickle your toes and you squirm.

My mistake. Already past your bedtime.

[Considering these conversations

as if in my parental prime].

A daughter tugging at her father’s coat;

my imagination, let’s go.

But no, not me now, just you.

Chasing the monsters away one-by-one.

Or making them material, comical or cute.

Watching your lids grow heavy.

In your dreams, you can pretend I am a hero.

In reality, I am, as the majority, average.

But you think I am much more-

I love you for your naivete.

And I’ll love you in ways I cannot now say.

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