The Monster's Toybox
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The stuffies aren’t asked how they feel
about the state of the playroom, the way
they’re tossed, or disemboweled of stuffing;
to them, the world is a ball
in the clutches of a monster.
It noses the sphere, wanting a playmate
when ruinous diversion tempts–
and to burn down the playground
when its interest is lost.
The world is a ball
in the clutches of a monster,
a sea leviathan we thought we could train
like a seal, barking for claps,
easily accepting of lordship over a small pool,
and meagerly doled out fish, content
with the cheering audience; the myth
of its origin lost to it
like the little girl’s golden ball
tumbled down a well
waiting for a not-yet-named-monster
first, to rescue her precious toy
and then to be made man again
after it had grown accustomed
to having such power, demanding
kisses in exchange for simple human kindness,
treating it like some children’s game.