King Max
leans into a puddle of beer
telling tales
of his monsters –
again –
with a
mix of
bravado
and horror.
He
forgets to eat supper most nights
so the
roars are more
terrible
when he
tells them,
swinging
his arms wide,
knocking
glasses over,
making
mischief.
He
stares into the yellow eyes of a young man
soaked in
Bud Light,
blinks,
pays his
tab and wanders home,
the
vines in his head
hanging
thicker,
to crawl
into bed,
whispering
to himself,
“Let the
wild rumpus start.”
