The Monster. . . the Mystery

I want to bury the memory, walk
out on the movie of my life,
leave the cinema for ever.

The young man in the Liverpool park:
ginger Brylcreemed hair, stink
of cologne, noisy silk tie.

My short-trousered friends ran away
but I lingered. He spoke to me.
What happened next?

Somehow my parents knew about it --
bad little boy! The police station,
the sting of Daddy's leather belt.

Evil was ugly trolls under bridges
not guys with bright ties, bad cologne.
Later, I would know that men approached

little girls and boys in parks,
in local alleyways. The constable said,
"Christopher, tell me in your own words--"

Children should always tell the truth,
shouldn't go to the park. Rusted railings,
trees where I hunted for caterpillars.

What happened? I still want to know about
the man -- but don't want to know more
about The Monster. . . the Mystery.


Christopher T. George