He was not a monster 
but could imitate one so realistically 
that the uninitiated could not tell the difference— 
and now his act begins again,
stomping around the center of the toy room 
destroying anything in his path: 
the dinosaur models he’d helped assemble and paint, 
the slot car track he’d pieced together 
and repaired on other days, 
the identities and unmarred surfaces 
of the children he helped imagine into being. 
Only the toys at the edge of the room 
had gone unnoticed. 

The eldest boy might be seven or eight-years-old 
and sits petrified, eyes turned always downward or away, 
kneeling amidst brokenness and bruises 
trying to hold back the cries of the inconsolable 
if only for the benefit of the younger two; 
so he begins breathing deeply, finding composure, 
throwing his mind into a distant future 
where he can write about this 
as a man beyond the reach of such dire shadows 
as a man much older than the figure now before him 
and as man who cannot forget the boy’s amazement— 
watching discreetly as the father builds a cemetery 
inside an amusement park 

Richard King Perkins II is a state-sponsored advocate for residents in long-term care facilities. He has a wife, Vickie and a daughter, Sage. He is a three-time Pushcart nominee and a Best of the Net nominee whose work has appeared in hundreds of publications including Poetry Salzburg Review, Bluestem, Emrys Journal, Sierra Nevada Review, Two Thirds North, The Red Cedar Review and December Magazine. He has poems forthcoming in Broad River Review, The William and Mary Review and The Louisiana Review. 

Read more of Richard King Perkins II's poetry here:
Postspawn Mortality