by Soren Paris
The god damned bugs are in the carburetor.
I don’t know how or why they got there,
but there they are. Chewed a hole
in the upper wall, hollowed out a nursery
and filled it with yellow, sticky egg sacks,
soft and pulsing.
The god damned bugs!
They’re out to get me!
They’re out to ruin my reputation
as an up-standing neighbor, as a proud owner
of a clean-cut bed of grass. It’s all
gone to seed.
And who will believe me if I tell them,
it’s the god damned bugs mucking up the carburetor?
Now see? Look at that bug shit
that spits out when I pull the starter.
A black spot stares up at me from my boot.
So what can I do, but hide behind the blinds
and turn off the lights? I have nowhere to go.
The mail is full of more bugs
so I don’t empty the box.
I see them pacing around
inside the rain soaked envelopes.
Let them machete their way through the wild mutant thorns.
Let them come and nail it to the door.
The bugs don’t mind.
They’ll get sick of me eventually
and move on down the row.
They’ll take over Anderson’s, I’m sure,
chew holes in the walls and feast on copper wires
clog the pool’s filter and blow the pump.
The blue water will fester a frothy green
and by November’s end
float a layer of wet, brown leaves.