You loiter in my hallway
like some biker on the street corner—
Marlon Brando in leather
on a black and white poster.
I’m no match for you
in sweatpants and slippers—
even this magazine
isn’t hip enough for your taste.
To be squashed by The New Yorker—
the ultimate indignity—
a page with the current cinema,
a cartoon and a carcass.
Any insect would flee
at the sight of their final subscription,
but you stare me down
with arthropod eyes.
by Craig Fishbane
Craig Fishbane is a poet and a teacher. He is kind to all bugs who do not crawl near his bed.
© 2008 CRAIG FISHBANE
No comments:
Post a Comment