|Arsenic Lobster poetry journal||
Three years old and already he holds a chess set,
a birthday gift from his great-grandfather.
This traveler’s edition folds into an old wooden box
which he now shakes in the darkness of his crib,
having abandoned his teddy and monkey-blankie.
He cries himself to sleep, trying to unlock it
while downstairs, his parents listen in the kitchen
to the latest about the underwear-bomber
and the forecast of whiteouts across the country.
About Robert Pesich