Mercy
The only thing I remember from last night’s
dream is the word mercy, spoken
by a spectral figure. Was it my soul,
crying out because it had been a hellish week
of floods and fury and dithering idiots
spouting lies, and in the petty annoyances
of my small life, that included ants
swarming in my kitchen cabinets?
I scattered diatomaceous earth till it looked
like a bakery explosion, swabbed vinegar
until it smelled like an aging salad, to no avail
and so I put aside my eco-spirit and dragged out
the killing traps.
I allow daddy longlegs to live peacefully
in corners but I can’t abide the sci fi vibe
of the little black bugs who I imagine might be
nesting in the walls and floors, seething,
ready to take over some night I’m dreaming
another mercy dream.
Allergic to the stinging sort,
I do not try to rescue or dispatch
the sonorous wasp that flings itself
at one window then another
like a vaudeville routine, not noticing
the open door for a good long time.
When she finally does and exits,
I puff out a sigh of relief until, moments later,
she’s back at it – smack, frantic buzz,
repeat, for several days, until
I find her on the floor, no autopsy needed.
None Of It Lasted
We dodged the drought, the cyclone,
the taxmen, even the hoarding impulse
but we couldn’t stay lean and limber,
go without sleep, remember everything.
Now creaky and layered in dun spots,
creased and folded, slooped and drooping
with crinkled knees and fleeting night vision,
we are old, old I say, no longer
with a chuckle. It could be any day,
any loose minute in a drab weekend.
Let the roof cave in, the grey paint curl
from the porch, let the rotted steps crumble
to dust and the mold reign supreme.
We’re inside the last chapter
and there’s no surprise ending,
no rescue.
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