Tiger Butter

Is it only when you’re little you know tigers live in your closet— one with your shoes on his two ears, another with your umbrella tied to his tail; the rest wearing your red coat and blue trousers with the red buttons? Is it only when you’re little the dustballs have mountainous shadows in the crack of light under the door? Or is it also NOW you fear that tigers will eat you— when you wake in the middle of the night and don’t know where you are, nor remember how far you’ve come. Your nose hurts like a plowed field, your fingers stiff— Then somehow, you remember what you’ve accomplished. The sewing is finished— The red buttons threaded to the blue pants and the little coat with its sleeves. And you know you have given them to the tigers (so they won’t eat you). But they chased themselves around a tree and melted into butter. NOW you can pick up your coat and trousers, your shoes and umbrella. Soon, even, you can start your car and go— The promise of dawn already on the face of the clock-radio.