The Goblin-Child

He lurks beneath stones,
under river bridges,
out of sight of passing people.
Not ugly,
not favorable.
Grumpy.
Children laughed
and threw sticks,
but he warned them away
with a chubby, stubby finger
and a rasping howl
from his orange lips.
Not ugly,
not favorable.
Grumpy.
Ages have been spent
catching birds and feasting.
Rumble snoring and scratching.
I’d be grumpy too
if I had a goblin mother
and a goblin father.