I would like to know where love goes when the
Monsters come out.
All this talk of walking down by the river
Watching the river boat captains steer big
Barges tight against the deep channel, up the
Heavy brown current has me sad.
In my dream the night before last, I saw our
She was holding that old blue apron you gave
Her one Christmas and smiling, like
In those pictures of her youth.
You were standing in her shadow
Looking out the window at rain coming
Off the old, broken gutter spout.
Same old dream, same old gutter, same
Blue in her eyes.
Doesn’t love care enough to stick around
For the monster show, I wonder?
Faded yellow letters make me both smile
And cry; with their blue cursive, neatly laid
Out like so many soldiers marching.
Weren’t there monsters then as well?
So I’m thinking about a monster’s old age,
Hoping maybe love will come back around now.