A score and dozen monkeys hide inside
our proud and broad minded middle class home.
They peep from under lampshades, watching us
through cracks in dusty, stuck or oiled doors.
They snatch at feet through gaps in fleets of stairs
and lurk in every thought that hangs in air.
These masters malign revel in chaos
and litter broken shards of hearts with glee.
They threaten to destroy the warmth of home
with winds that carry questions and debris.
They hide just past the corner of the eye,
and freeze to perfect stillness when we turn.
They tiptoe circles ’round us when we sleep
and whisper words that wake us, soaking sweat.
When we attempt to look them eye to eye
they snicker, point, and make comments obscene.
They shove us, lock up, toss away the keys
we do not scream for help, instead ignore –
we lie and play our games of mock-pretense
and believe that the monkeys will just leave.

Attempt at iambic pentameter…


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