SLAM!

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After Dr. Shock Theater, In bed
I would try to conjure Flintstones
when the house settled in creaks,
with the buzz from a single mosquito
intermittent in my ear.
But each night he came,
a fever dream rising from shadow
in ragged grave clothes,
a patchwork of drooped lids,
flat iron skull, blue spark neck bolts,
a death mask pale green.
I would burrow deep down
in covers cozy and close as a tomb
and drive him to the closet,
but in sleep, he came again.
Blank face killer of children,
a hanging limb outstretched
and always reaching,
reaching through clouded woodland
in stiff plodding stride,
moaning in anguish
and ever gaining,
my high-tops turned cement.