you want to write in an apple green closet
with the snow coming down inside and
one frosted lightbulb: (the old kind)
your secret thoughts;
and then it rains.
exterminators come
and you hide your notes
and feel ashamed
that your cubicle apartment
wasn't perfect
when they walked in
with their: all those books!
exclaimed; funny looks,
exchanged, as though you were hoarding dinosaurs.
tromping in regulation boots
they don't stay very long,
but it doesn't feel that way:
rooting out the few skittering enemies.
turning back with a smile, a tip of the cap and
glad to be out of the way.
and now they've gone.
(but not the bugs, who understand you
as you do them) . compadres.
the snow settles in.
the lightbulb is again your friend,
both on or off;
on a golden chain,
yet free
mary angela douglas 13 january 2016
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem