The Monarch
  
He’s volatile,
independent.
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
winter:
warm, sweet potato houses
and outside,
snow,
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,
disappearing,
not returning
with nightfall.

©Jeff Fiorito 1987