The Big Bad Woolf

Apr 23 2015

I’d like to think the Bogeyman is dead,

that age has turned me like a noble grape

into a richer wine to match the bread,

so long-matúred, a snoot fit for a crepe,

that I might be the one one true in faith

might pick to bless and drink in Someone’s name,

and, fortified, no monster, creep, or wraith

could fast uncork the years to taste my shame

and let my notes of apple dribble out.

I’ve learned I’m still the toddler told a lie

to make me “good”—no ice cream if I pout—

but bullies won’t be scolded if I cry.

I went to school for decades, as did you,

and learned we grown-ups fear the Boo-gey, too.


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