July 24 by The Running Son
It hummed and buzzed for most of three days.
Its home a jail, it’s jail a maze.
dumb bug bumping, a card-spoke sound,
I’ll find that bug before I go crazy.
A lazy search was made, nothing found.
I’d hoped it would simply buzz around,
crawl away or shrivel and be gone,
swept to a corner of the ground.
My cat, the sound and shadow-flick, saw,
back pressed the ears, out went the paw,
up went a pile of poems and bills
and no bug was ever found at all.
There’s no communicating to you these ills.
Keep the windows closed, it pays.
Poems as floor-mats, a peace instills,
and cats curl where poems fuel a blaze.
by Jim Aldrich
.namaste. -• ö.tH(ink)Mÿstiç •- .namaste.