Monday, August 15, 2016

Little Bugs

little bugs.
little soldiers in a perpetual war;
belittled pilgrims with us here on earth

in your miniscule sojourns.
how I regret that you must live in corners,
dart into crevices

weave and bob on kitchen floors
where the linoleum patterns
seem like camouflage to you

yet I can see you clearly, black against
the white, or cream where you freeze
thinking this is the thing to do.

I wonder if you wonder:
what are giants for if
not for kindness built

if they don't even want us in
the cabinets they're not using
or in the kitchen drawers.

or in the unheated garages,

the tool sheds where
we hoped things would be
different this time.

are you musing on a castle of your own
in between mad scrambles
where you could freely roam

about your own living room?

I will make you tiny stories of them

where fountains play,
and so do you.
the scent of orange blossoms in the air

and rare music.

you will forget your furtive existence;
the nights where you must lurk
till all are asleep;

the frantic minutes when the Enemy
suddenly flicks on the kitchen light
grabbing the sandwich you crave

only one crumb from that could last you a week.
in heaven may you have your own kingdoms
and be done with hiding forever

playing Blind Bugs Bluff with the angels cheerily;
God throwing rose petals at you in your sleep.
and finding you cake crumbs iced.

mary angela douglas 15 august 2016