Listen to this post:

There’s a tentacle monster on my ceiling.

He’s a knitted lime ball with wiggling appendages

and one large brown eye, half-lidded.

I could call him Weary,

christening him after his attitude.

He looks into my cluttered room,

the disheveled piles categorically sorted,

the bed unmade and covered in crumbs,

and passes judgment in silence.

If I turn him around

his bored gaze will roll down Tremont St.

where the light from the Loews Theatre

casts red undulations over my ceiling.

Did you know they turn the sign off

at 2:14 in the morning?

I don’t know when they turn it on.

Cool headlights file down Tremont

between hollow orange streetlights,

and, if it’s a Friday, cars will fill the three lanes,

people will fill the sidewalk,

and I will lie awake and listen to them shout.