They say God sends locusts to chastise the wicked,
so I wonder what we did to deserve the moth summer.
I’m talking thousands of the bastards;
winging through the parks and the schools and Town Hall and the supermarkets,
shedding their filthy dust.
Better keep your windows down, don’t want to end up like Mr. Jones.
Two days out of town with a crack to let the breeze in,
and poor Mr. Jones came back to hundreds of fat, full-bellied moths.
He chased them out, but already his couches,
his clothes, his carpets, the wallpaper, the sheets,
and the lampshades were all
eaten away.
My dad said he never knew mo
I know.
If I do not, I learn.
If I cannot,
I do not believe.
I am five of one-hundred, and
they say I am
the lowest of us.
A reply:
ripples from a stone.
You know me,
from your stories
and histories:
Feynman, Ayn Rand,
Jefferson, Joe Steel.
Sherlock, Spock, and Aristotle.
I neither defy nor challenge authority,
though I circumvent it
when I must.
It’s more efficient that way.
I love, and I hate.
I hate
blind acceptance, tradition
for tradition’s sake.
Ignorance (willful or
otherwise), the lack
of second guessing.
Those without restraint.
I love—
Thought and
innovation and
names and
what is yet to come.