Under the stairs lives a fat, fluffy monster
With long fingernails he’s embarrassed not to have trimmed.
He comes out at night, sniffing the ground like a bloodhound
Because his nose is so large and misshapen that he prefers to keep it low and out of your face.
He stays under the stairs all day. When you’re alone,
Trapped in the silence of seclusion, you can hear him breathing.
He wheezes. phlegm gurgles at the back of his throat.
He hocks and growls and licks his teeth,
Attempting to cut down the spread of plague and gingivitis.
The lights aren’t always bright near his alcove.
In the shadows, his eyes are seen glowing.
Yellow like jaundice. Wide and disturbed.
Staring, glaring, scouring, searching, screaming.
Under the stairs, the monster grows fatter,
His hair curls and thickens, his eyes become weaker.
As his fingernails lengthen like knives and his toenails curl into claws,
Splinters become more common, and the carpet snags when he crosses it.
Across the street, there is a room for rent,
Which he says is a step he’s ready to take in life.
© Nathan Cook, July 2018
The Favoring Wind 