On Reading Poetry At Night.

I read poetry in the dark, scared of the monsters under
my bed.  My nightlight has been turned on, and I am
armed and ready for any noise, or suspicious activity.
The nightlight shows shadows in the darkness,
a circle of light flights my wall.

The light helps me with three things:  helps me read my poetry,
and keeps the shadows away, and the monsters stay
underneath the bed.

Stars twinkle in the sky outside my window.
A tree claws at the glass.  Tomorrow is another day.
School, and then gardening.  I wake up at the sound of my
alarm, and suddenly, the shadows disappear.
They're under my willow trees.
I go downstairs to eat breakfast,
a breakfast of champions-toast, cereal, orange juice.

Then I go outside to see the bus squealing away from the curb,
and I miss my ride to school.  I go back inside,
and tell Mama I missed the bus.  "Don't be angry,"
I say in a pleading voice.  "Please."

And with a flourish, we are out the door, and I am
the last one to arrive-but, still, I make it,
and that's one good thing about the day.