I spent my early childhood back East
(Manhattan-born, Long Island reared to 8),
and sure I have strong memories, not least
the insects Mom would burn to death or bait.
She never minded summer fireflies.
She swatted other bugs and was appalled
whenever ants invaded. She’d devise
a death by seething water. Mom would scald.

Those bugs were huge compared to what beset
our California dwellings. Come the rain
and we have myriads of tiny ants.
We squish them with a fingertip. We set
out traps and Windex-spray. We find no train
or trail to treat. They’re here. I have no chance.

This entry was posted in Critters, Personality, Poetry and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s