Mosquitoes

Mosquitoes

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

Buds

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.