sitting on a new future couch,
which is the same orange but a different size,
still exhausted but with rounder edges,
silken cushions that I slide off of invariably
after a long night, or at the beginning of a terribly long day.
the buzzing of the cicadas is reminiscent
of the summer we spent drunkenly
glancing into the fish tank that we had dubbed
"the ci-queda strong hold"
impatiently waiting for the moment the bug would
shed it's skin
so we could snap it up for photographs and sculptures.
We could have used all those moments for something else!
All of the cicadas died,
exoskeleton and all.
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Spring sun raises the caterpillars from their wombs
Emerging from their tiny oasis of jungle into the wasteland around them
Ever tenacious, pressing forward in undulating waves to the river of roadway
They advance fearlessly, and are pulverized by passing cars without so much as an afterthought.
Yet by their sheer numbers they are every bit as unshakable as the invincible titans
Wandering resolutely into their Mecca of concrete
Into oblivion.
A paper wasp is building her nest outside my window.
To be able to accomodate her is my pleasure.
I leave out a capful of Hawaiian Punch in gratitude.
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