Monsters by the wardrobe
by Rosemary Dun
[ poetry - august 08 ]
There are things not said,
not let out
to spread their raven wings
and whoomph open
unlucky as an umbrella
released indoors.
Those things whisper
in the quiet
of in between times
not filled with parties,
with chatter, and borrowed friends.
They lurk Golem-like
to confirm and harden
that nothing quaking in the dark
with no landing light
to switch on.
Things unsaid skulk,
like
monsters by the wardrobe.
