The Monkey

a cold gust of wind rose,
blowing a long, low moan
through the old, rusty gutter.
he shivered and turned to go.
that’s when he saw it—
the large cartoon eyes;
the tarnished, broken symbols;
that toothy, maniacal grin.
that grin!
he had seen that grin,
once comforting and comical,
in his nightmares.
now, face to face with this childhood toy,
that grin was no longer welcoming.
it said, “Welcome home, Johnny.”
at the same time, that grin—
that innocent-looking grin—
had also said,
“prepare to die.”