My Monster

My monster comes to get me
dressed in poetry and prose,
diacritics pierce his eyebrows,
a cedilla hangs from his nose.

He lives in the black hole
beneath my buried bed,
appears when the burning
bushes line the Boulevards.

His chivalry is notable,
doors open automatically,
I ride in his convertible,
down to his sun full sea.

Then with rhyme but why
I can’t reason, half way there,
he pulls over and yells, “Get
out, you lout! Begone!”