Crocodiles

There are crocodiles under the bed,

She said.

They lurk in dark water.

Remember before,

The smirk when they caught her

Tangled in a white sheet.

Should have kept her feet from the floor.

So instead,

She stays with eyes open.

Stripped open and turned inside out,

Like a handbag made of reptile skins.

Contents spilling out as she begins

To put back

A mess of receipts, souvenirs and guts.

Un-zipped.


Un-evolved since Jurassic days,

So efficient are their killing ways.

A quick bite and a slow drowning.

Apparently the way to fight a croc

Is a single stab to the fleshy core

Brute force and a shock.

But she doesn’t want them dead,

Just out from beneath the bed

And unable to harm.

Let others feed their snappy snaps.

And delight in the charm.

A slow framing and quick shutter speed.

She can’t stand the sight

Of their constant smiles.


So the little girl keeps on the light

And asks her dad, to shake the covers

Free of crocodiles.

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