THE MONSTER UNDER MY BED

by Kevin Maher  —

When the sunlit day is over and moonbeams come a’humming,
I prepare myself for slumber, but dread what may be coming.

My bedroom is cloaked in shadow as a nervousness doth rise,
I await the nightly visitor, with terror in mine eyes.

I hide beneath a blanket, as if to delay my demise,
Because underneath this very bed, ‘tis where the beast resides.

My nose detects a rancid odor wafting from below,
The Colossus shall be coming soon, that much I surely know.

And then I see its 8-foot frame, a manifested curse.
The Monster has revealed itself, and now here comes the worst…

Its skin is sickly, slimy green, with eyes of yellow pus,
But to tell you further details would be superfluous.

It snorts a festrid grunkle with a breath of foul damnation,
How I hate the waiting; O! abhorrent anticipation…

It summons itself nightly, like a recurring fever dream
And hands me another flyer to come see his improv team.

This frunkle-chunk homunculus can’t get it through his head.
I thought I’d made it crystal clear: I am disinterested.

Like Sisyphus in tortured loop, rolling his uphill boulder,
I face this awkward nightly script, ‘tis my burden to shoulder.

The Monster brags of last night’s show, “the audience was enraptured.”
I ask if there’s a video; “No. The magic can’t be captured!”

For 13 months and 19 days, he’s shared this invitation.
And every time he comes to me, I give new explanation.

I’ve declined in each and every way, with voicemails and in print,
Despite these noble efforts, The Monster cannot take a hint!

And then this Beast doth burble on how his team performs so well,
Their dream is that all 12 of them shall be cast on SNL.

I smile and nod, then yawn a yawn; I try to be polite.
And that’s when the Monster asks me to come see his show tonight!

So, I fumble, and I humble and I thrumble to-and-fro,
While my fried mind tries to find a lie for why I cannot go!

I feel my throat get tighter, as if hanging from a noose,
I stammer and I clamor as I grasp a new excuse.

“Alas, I work early Monday. I wish there were a way…”
He points out that tomorrow is Martin Luther King Day.

So now I look like a racist! I feel shame and indigestion.
Worse still, I’ll soon be watching scenes based on audience suggestion.

Against my intuition, I agree to go tonight,
Just get the damn thing over with, I must confront my fright.

The Monster shares what he calls “good news,” and tells me I’m in luck,
He has a half-price promo code: now it’s only 30 bucks.

Next he pauses his excitement to admit the arrangement stinks:
I’ll have to buy an appetizer and, at minimum, 2 drinks.

This nightclub has a “bringer show,” so their stage time shall depend,
On whether or not his improv pals can each bring 7 friends.

My eyes fall upon the handbill for the show at Yukkity Yuks
Their motto is inscribed below: “Sketch Comedy That Doesn’t Suck!”

What is it about this mutant that makes me apathetic?
Do I find him dull and boring? Or just downright pathetic?

Somewhere there, beneath his mangled teeth, is a pit where hunger lies,
But a comic’s dream for self-esteem can never be satisfied.

The Monster makes my skin crawl, his demeanor’s sad and needy.
Why can’t he be like other beasts who’d just arrive and eat me?

I shudder in his sticky embrace, fer Christ’s sake, let me go!
He says I picked a good night; it’s a 4-hour long-form show.

I ask what the team’s name is, he says, “The Columbine Class Clowns.”
It confirms my lapse in judgement but it’s too late to back down.

Is it his stink or neediness that makes my nose hairs singe?
Why couldn’t he just slaughter me, and spare me from the cringe?

As we descend beneath my bed to the underworld below,
The Creature mentions something that he’s always wanted to know.

He asks why I hate live theater -- what made me the way that I am?
“It’s because when I was your age…. I’d perform at Poetry Slams.”

So that is why I fear this foe, and loathe the Thing I see,
It’s cause I know, deep down below, this Monster’s just like me.

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