Poem #794 – why I dream of them only after they were gone

I neither flick nor otherwise attempt destruction
of the tiny flea that jumps onto my arm
a “good” person doesn’t fuss over trivial matters

it harvests my blood,
not nearly enough to suck me dry,
I itch for a week.

I am angry.
it’s not the blood I miss
it’s the bump I never wanted

Poem #173

the quilter pushed her project
through the sewing machine
she was unaware of the beetle

the small beetle clung
to a pinned together seam in the fabric
the small beetle was unaware of the machine

the machine brought it’s needle down
into the fabric edges and the beetle
the machine was unaware of everything