The Monster Under The Bed

 

My mother always shushed me when I went to her and said
"I think there's a monster hiding underneath my bed"
She said to me "you silly bean,
All that's there is mess.
Did you think I hadn't noticed?
It's time that you confessed
To your scurryfunge scullduggery
Honesty is best"
Well, frankly I was not in the mood
For lectures on my housework
Or lack of it.
I pursued it once again,
"It's there, I know,  I heard it move
I thought I saw some eyes,
When I tried to trap it with my books
And muddy docs, size 5.
I heard snoring earlier, I swear it! No, I did!
How can you be so sure there's no monster under my bed?"
"Because monsters, my love, live
 in story books
And in the hearts of man.
I explain that when you're older.
You'll learn to understand. 
They aren't interested in your ankles,
Or giving wriggling toes bites.
They are not photophobic
Now turn off your light."
I held on to her dressing gown as she tried to leave
and once again persisted. I began to plead,
"But what if it gets me, what will I do?
Can I shout you if it happens?
Will you come through?"
Exasperated  now, she sighed;
"Look, there isn't a monster,
That noise is your belly, or maybe it's sounds from the radio, or telly.
I'm tired, it's late, go to sleep,
Don't complain..
I don't want to have to come through again."
"Ok then, mummy, if you are sure"
Placated, I was; reclined and demure.
"Love you mummy, sleep well, good night"
"Schlaft gut" was her automatic, heartfelt reply.
The light was extinguished, the footsteps retreated
I lay in my duvet  cocoon anticipating
Silence.
After 5 minutes of adjusting eyes
The shadows were forming into threatening guise.
And then I heard it, the little scrabble thump
Of the creature residing beneath my bunk.
I rolled to the wall and pulled up my feet
My fear crystallising into gritted teeth.
I turned again, foetal, now blankets dishevelled
And gingerly stretched out my fingers the level
of the corner of the bed,
And gave them a wave
And a savage white claw shot up out of the grave.
I yelped and pulled back,
Heard a disgruntled snort.
And my anxiety giggle was horrifying caught
In my throat, trying desperately to stay quiet.
I don't want to be part of the monster's diet.
Hand wounds aren't easy to explain
And bite Mark's are obvious quadrants of pain
And if there is evidence that the monster is real,
then mummy might actually get down and kneel
And find you! And we can't really have that,
Can we, my darling, secret, feral cat?