Georgie Peter: Shadow Eater

Down the road, where two converge
upon a corner, one will learn
that herein lies old Georgie Peter:
honest-to-goodness Shadow-Eater.

Georgie Peter wears with pride
his pallid locks wherein reside
a tangled mess of blacks and greys
in which one could get lost for days.
Look just below that mess of hair–
the quickest glance, if you should dare–
and find a pair of charred black pits.
He sees just fine; don’t have a fit!

Below the eyes, a nose like mine,
like pigs, or birds, or a canine’s
(it doesn’t matter, any’s fine;
he’ll change it out from time to time).
The sides of Georgie Peter’s head
hang two long ears as dark as lead
he’ll press to walls with interest firmer,
hearing every shout and murmur.
Wide, flat palms of deepest crease
and nails as long and sharp as beasts’
jut out from both his open sleeves.
Pointy elbows. Knobby knees.

Yet all these details are minute,
so towards the jaw our eyes commute
to Georgie Peter’s shade-slick maw
more jagged than an eagle’s claw,
more crushing than a python’s hug,
more bitter than a lover’s shrug.
It drops and drips with gloam miasma,
thick and slick; a filthy plasma.
Don’t be stricken ‘fraid or sad! Oh,
Georgie Peter just eats shadow. 

Birds do nest and bees do bumble
in his garden (lush yet humble),
though there’s one fact without twin–
all shadows: gone! There’s none within!
Front door to back, from gate to gate–
check if you must, with rest or haste.
You’ll find not one smudge on the ground
where once a shadow could be found.
See, Georgie Peter ate each one
with hunger not to be outdone.
But what will Georgie Peter eat
once all the shade’s gone from the street?