Fleas are leaping to and from
The crevices of the settee as they’ve
Decided to abandon old Toby in favour
Of a more fragrant playground. Bigger bugs
Are stuck to hanging insect catchers and
Decorating the house as if Christmas had arrived
In time to see summer leave. There’s a particularly
Sick fish in the tank who won’t be thanked for the
Green moss on his parlor walls, thick enough to
Hide the fact he’s dying.
Circumstances change, age defers to
Worse, and to be at the mercy of trends,
And their youthful workers will be hurtful.
But I twitch literature, snippets of history’s heavy
Tomes spill from my every pore when I walk
My nervous way; sneezing bits of Dickens in-between
Milton and Keats, but all William’s words are worthless
When sundered by her violent style: a vassal as me, a
Chattel of hers, and saved in the favourites list on
The left for further examination.
On the continent we seem to have
A reputation and a history for blood
Thirstiness, although I don’t recall beginning
Most of the last century’s wars, though we did finish
Them, but if I was slightly more unhinged than
I am, or could bear a syringe in my arm, then I’d be out
With a gun, shooting comforters for fun, whilst declaring
That she was to blame. But a flash of inspiration from
Her, a sudden crack in concentration from me and
We breezed through the house work.