I know the monsters aren’t in the closet.
I stood in the dark cold at the onset
of a storm staring into its abyss
waiting for a sign of them. Just darkness
answered my patience. Slowly, I close it.

Small child’s arms hold dearly to the locket
given by his mother watching the sunset
on her life. Father leaves his homemade mess.
The monsters aren’t in the closet.

The grief-stricken cling to words of prophets
and scour the ground for change. Blue and scarlet
and white are donned by those with prowess
in pinching spare change; none for those with less.
No change for nation with empty wallet.
The monsters aren’t in the closet.