Saturday, October 12, 2013


The coarse-wing'd fly
Zips furiously among my books,
And does not shrivel at my dirty looks
Or drop to the rug and die.

Next to the lamp,
He slam-dances in the bright light;
Perhaps it isn't energy but fright
Of a life-crushing THUMP.

Fresh out of Raid,
I try Lysoling him to death
And chase him till I'm almost out of breath.
No, this one's not afraid.

Ah, leave him be:
It's time for coffee (half past three!).
I'll drink it in the kitchen so the bug
Won't dive into my mug.

You would presume
He'd get tired, the son-of-a-gun!
But round he goes, having his manic fun
In what was once my room.

In the Silverware Drawer After Dark

The steak knives are playing the Ramones at full blast. The salad forks are dancing with the teaspoons to the tune of "Come On, Ei...