Jan 01 2006


Published by at 2:58 pm under Poetry

by Sander Roscoe Wolff
© 1-1-2006 (6:58 PM)

This mysterious insect climbs my window sill,
Its mandibles clacking, searching for food.
I crush it, leaving a stain on the gray paint.

This is the way of things. Brute force wiping away
The weak. A kind of tyranny, I guess. This small creature,
Unaware of my presence, surprised at its sudden

I press my face to the glass, the window fogged with
My breath. Beyond this pane, the greens and browns
Of endless nameless towns that twitch with appetites.

We hunger for something, never full, crawling desperately
For the next tidbit, never full, smacking our lips, tasting
The air, hungry for that one thing.

This town, this burning desire, this hope of satisfaction,
All crushed in an instant by some distant, twitching finger.

Maybe we see a flash, maybe we have just enough time to
Know our fate.

Stupid insect.

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