The Monarch
He’s volatile,
All Halloween orange
and witch black,
he’s the kind you
drew in school
with crayons you couldn’t
do anything else with.
I was nine
at my sister’s wedding,
drinking Crush,
giggling with the silvery bubbles,
following him under tables,
through hedges.
He whispered a promise of
warm, sweet potato houses
and outside,
solid and numbing.
Some kids play on
the jungle gym
while other kids like to
stay inside and draw
but some children,
curious about a
momentary flutter,
wander through the meadow,
to the edge,
not returning
with nightfall.

©Jeff Fiorito 1987