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,
I’m hoping the future is cold.