she asks me, 'what do you see?'
'a monster,' i reply.
'what sort of monster?' she crosses one
leg over the other, her black heel
dangling by the ball of her foot.
what sort of monster? is there any
'sort' of monster? a goblin, a zombie,
a werewolf, that thing that
creeps under your bed -
what sort of monster?
i'm two-horned and fang'd,
scaly and slippery,
hook-nosed and hungry.
'the hunting sort,' i answer.
she scribbles on her yellowpad,
then glances up at me over the
red frame of her glasses.
'what do you hunt?' she asks.
i pick out the weakest,
the jaded, the despondent,
the wanton, the lonesome,
the needy, the sick.
i caress them, shelter them,
feed them - plump them up
and eat them.
'others, like me.'