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,
It 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.
Poetry by Thomas DeFreitas
Read 155 times
Written on 2017-11-06 at 05:22
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