Tell It to The Bogeyman

He slouches down our street,
his thin, shagging hair
swaying to and fro on his

haggard face.
The street lights flicker
in fear before him as he pauses,
sniffs the air, and he looks for
squirming, naughty Little Things.

But they don’t hear him
as his nose leads him to our yard.
The moon above shrinks
behind the clouds as he adjusts
the sack on his back, waiting impatiently
to sate himself with squirming, naughty Little Things,

but they don’t hear him
as he makes his way to our porch.
My prior warnings to be good little boys
have been met with lopped ears
and the house continues to quake
with their war cries ringing through the air.
The family room, now their playground,
Is littered with carcasses of their toys,
Clothes and books rotting on the carpet.
Dinner had been laid to waste, waiting
to be saved as tomorrow’s breakfast.
And now they’re vowing to blind themselves
standing before the TV, watching
their cartoon favorites instead of going to bed.
But it’s already too late, because there’s someone
knocking on the door.
He has come to fetch his dinner.
He’s come for my squirming, naughty Little Things.