Paul Jones

 “He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man” - Samuel Johnson

Not to be the beast but to own one.

A hairy fanged once-a-month-er

wearing a pre-torn plaid shirt and pants

frayed at their high-water hemline.

I ask for his name, but he has none.

I am certain he's a MacGregor,

one of that wicked, unhappy clan,

made mad from murders at Loch Lomond.

Roars! Performative repetition!

Red eyes, flares unfocused but sincere,

matched to a car salesman's wave of hands

stuck in a full-moonlight state of mind.

A rubberized plastic piece of fun–

that's how he's related, now, to fear–

lineage forgotten, unforgiven

by those we need not nudge to remind.

Something or someone inside me shuns

him. Yet, I can't move or stop my stare.

He was somewhere thought to be a man–

a man who was loved, happy, and kind.

I would pay the price for his freedom.

But closet him until his regular

lunar change. I'm a bit less human

myself and in need of a trusted friend.