Last night I smashed a mosquito
Splattered it flat on the wall,
The Book Review paid it finito:
The last dead mosquito of Fall.
.
My eye was precise, my nerves steely,
But here was a troubling thing:
Could it instead have been, really,
The first-hatched mosquito of Spring?
.
The night-siren sound of its buzzing
Was giving me all kinds of reasons
To worry that mankind is fuzzing
The normal progression of seasons.
.
I lay awake scratching my cranium
Listening to Limbaugh and Beck.
Why is there still a geranium
In the window box out on the deck?
.
The fall of each insect or sparrow
Like the sea creeping up on Cape Cod
Chills me right down to the marrow
It’s a signal that comes straight from God.
.
But waking this morning, the arras
Was pulled back, and lo and behold,
They brokered a treaty in Paris:
I’m hoping the future is cold.
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