Today's peculiar reveille: starling-song, police
sirens, has nothing on my lover's snore-
snored far off, halfway across the continent.
The lawn needs mowing, the lease

on this old place will soon expire-it's down
to the, well, the thin pulled filament, that is,
these bills in piles (leaves?) left on the counter
are due. No check. The faucet drips. The town

remains untouched by global fear: no accord,
no peace-the West bank's up for grabs. Highest
bidders bid, my coffee drips more slowly now.
I write two letters, tack a clipping on the board.,

and hope by noon the sun will blaze-then drop.
This tired haze-long in coming-won't burn off.

They've done it again-
after each rain, they manage
to cross the line of Raid,
which, on Pancho's advice,
I sprayed on the window-
pane and along the sill.

Fairer creatures should
increase, I guess, but these
machine-grease colored
critters don't appease
the poet's eye for beauty-
nothing's fair.

They skitter down the wall
into the sink, rapt but distracted
like hungry American tourists
at the inedible Eiffel Tower.
Even from this view, though,
they don't look much like people.

An errant line of course, diverges
onto a narrow blade of stainless
steel. A picnic in a yellowed
blob of mayo! C'est la vie,
my little hymenopterans-lift
the handle, watch them wave adieu.