By Sean Lause

The monster is a sock puppet,
any reasonable adult can tell.
A reptile, it resembles Kukla on bennies,
and when it peers round the screen, the children
mock it, whack it with ju-jubes and raisinettes,
or hurl derisions at its confusion.

Only one boy, small and plump,
whose face resembles a design
on a balloon someone is inflating,
dives for the floor, his rump poked up
high in the air like the tail
of the Cowardly Lion.

The monster munches a Danish
farmer, and laughter roils
through the turning cone of light.
The fat boy, Buddy Holly glasses
all love and licorice, sits entranced,
his eyes two dark pools of wonder.

The General and the Scientist
have plotted a way to kill the beast
that is efficient, clean and climactic.
The monster, who just seems lost,
gobbles more civilians, and the fat boy
cheers: “Yes! Eat them all up!”

The weapon carves a wound in the monster’s heart.
The Danes and the children cheer,
all but the little fat boy
whose tears drop sweetly
in silent surrender
like fated, dying demigods.

The End. And as the other kids
scrunch their eyes in the sudden daylight
or stagger towards the bleating cars,
the fat kid dances, dances home.
From a distance I bless him with my straw,
the only kid in the whole damned place who knows what a monster means.