Friday, May 16, 2014

Poem: Insecticide


Insecticide

The moth guarantees its death by
going
            jack
                        crazy
in the bedroom of a sleepy
guest with a towel and a
full head of irritation.

Whap!

Moth’s fault?
Moth being moth.
But a sleeper must sleep.

Think about that the next time you
go
            flapping
                                    at the
light all Don Quixote,
raising hackles in the wrong company.

The next towel may be yours.


From the collection Fields of Satchmo 
Photo by MJV

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