Beastie — Brooks Hansen

There is a beast that lives in Central Park. The Castle is his home. The park is his domain, and he has been ruling there, in his way, for longer than anyone can remember. The reason so few know of him is because he only comes out at night, and it is said that while he makes his moonlit rounds, the statues of the park all come to life, to stretch their legs, to congregate, and “drink the evening air.” But the reason so few people know this is because (as the poem says) the only one that they let seem them is the only one who lets them see... “They're not alone. There's flesh and bone. There's pointy ears, and fingernails, and teeth.” Though I grew up not far from the park, I myself was unaware of the Beastie's existence until the spring of my tenth year, when for one week my parents left me and my sister in the care of our next door neighbor, Mrs Guildenweiser. This is the story of that week, and of my first encounter with our other, wilder neighbor, he of the moonward howl... ...the stomach's growl, the gnaw, the paw, the grunt the scratch, the cheer. Come along and meet the Beastie, shaggy Beastie, Lord of the Lamp Post!