Friday, October 3, 2014



I don’t know if there are seasons
When the flesh of a tall heavy
Dark haired woman of 60
Is more delectable.
Usually the mosquitoes menace
In summer,
Stick tiny stingers.
Soft thigh flesh bitten
Sings of a meal
Well taken.
This time, however,
Not until October
Did my friends
Choose to feast.
Perhaps they are going
For the vampire look –
Teeth raised, incisors poised,
Victim alluringly terrified.
The only problem is
That they are mosquitoes,
Not bats,
And thus their ability to stun
Is limited.
They can only generate pink
Not blood lines of fear,
And their most evil looks
Are lost on bigger life forms.

But remember, would-be beasties,
The thrill of your mosquito lifetimes
Begins and ends well south
Of the throat
And itches its target
So much more successfully.

Try again next summer,
When you don’t have to live up
To movie clichés of fear
And need not imitate their drama.
Don’t laze until autumn.

Burnish those points.
Bare your weapons.
I, your meal, will be waiting.

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