I am eight years old

and sleep with a backpack

full of prized possessions:

My Hilary Duff CD

and my dance trophy.

I am prepared for disaster

but afraid of everything.

 

I know who’s footsteps

sound like shuffling

or stampedes.

My father is the boogeyman.

 

I an older now

and sleep with ambien.

 

I am afraid of footsteps

I no longer hear

the boogeyman.