Talking With Caterpillars Poem by Bill Galvin

Those that know me well, know that I will write about anything, and those that know me best wish I would not; but, subjects and styles notwithstanding, and free verse/free association being indefinable, I give you a take on a day when I was just going to sit out a warm and humid day after two nights of late-night rocking to late-night blues and rock jams and shows, and I did not mention, I have an air-conditioned apartment, and I had already written an unexpected piece from an earlier conversation with a woman about her Dad that I named "He Hung The Moon"; so, I was feeling OK about that, but just didn't want to stay closed up all day, and went to dear lady-friend LL's place to water the plants while she was at work, and decided I should probably doodle with her drum kit (I have my own sticks now) , but first, should make myself a warm-weather refresher of tequila, Cointreau, and ice (no AC in her place) , which, looking back, was the precipitant of my subsequent conversations with the insects around me; but, I digress; and my itinerant ramblings of untrained, free-expression pounding melodies (?) begin to work up a sweat, which I so much wanted to avoid, but, there it is, an extemporaneous explosion of sounds unheard-except-by-myself-and-the-more-i-imbibe-the-more-i-like-it when I finish, and when summer refresher coincides with hot humidity, it matters not as sweat glistens on arms when doing nothing but sitting; you just don't notice (or care) anymore; so, I may as well plant myself on the back deck with another tequila and listen to the chomping of gypsy moth and tent caterpillars on the trees around me, even though as I light a small cigar, I wonder when this two-week long upsurge in tree-defiling, and natural, but, unsympathetic phenomenon of hairy, wormy leaf-eaters will be over, as mini-pellets of digested leaves drop and bounce, and clipped, wasteful, leaf-ends fall like it's October, and trees above look prematurely nude, and, when the fat ones get their fill, they drop from their barely-green wasteland down to find their next habitat for their gross transfiguration from ugly (but natural) hairy worm to ugly (but natural) moth, with no ulterior good point that I can see, and I say, don't come this way, detour, and flick them to a faraway start-over destination; but, as Nature, my Muse, is in so many of my writings, I have to accept her minor achievements as well as her great embellishments; speaking of which, nota bene: the pen is mightier than the sword, but also can be a great procrastinating and forgetful tool, and, alas, the cigar is smoked, the tequila is drunk, I am back home; but, the tomato plants were not watered… and I feel a nap coming on.

June 23,2017