Once I saw a Minotaur
peeking through my bedroom door.
Then burst my most potent scream
I thought, however nothing more
I heard but hooves and breathy steam.
Now why would that be so? How could
panic mute to hooves on wood,
constricting or convulsing that
defensive instinct of childhood
to vocalize alarm? Combat
comes to children hard, it seems,
coalescing in bad dreams.
And something else, something quite sad
which every day my life redeems:
the bull-man wasn’t really bad.