208 Spring 2012
Gently turned the tap; small boy awe and glee.
A withered stick man smoking in his bed,
Those long hostile fumes he did not foresee.
The toddler, an insect, out of his head.
Faucets were declaring outrage and war –
The bug had left through a hole in the fence.
Spume shot out oily all over the floor
His little game did not make any sense.
Giants followed, roaring, eyes of battle.
And gas like sweat waving flags of death
brutally crushed living lungs of the day.
And scourge of threat on a waft of breath –
then there came slap of skin, a red hot sound,
the bug lay wingless on wet battleground.