#215
Fleeced by bedbug bites,
fire ants outside and in,
mosquitos and malaria
dancing everywhere,
i am a disease time-bomb
my arms riddled with bites,
skin crawling with tiny tormentors
the sky pours,
first,
with peaceful pitter patters
the joy of rain,
but the heavens have other intentions
soaking my blankets,
bowing my tent,
i am exhausted,
tossing, turning, twisting,
my already too thin
foam pad folded out of place
i am drenched every-time i touch
a wall. i felt
another one crawl
over me.
Across the yard
speakers crack, reverb
drenched hymns howl,
into the 3 am nighttime abyss.
i have to pee, i am
further behind then i imagined,
and while the day had been slow
the sounds from the pot-holed
highway had been beautiful,
accenting movement.
And now i am stuck,
in a tiny, tiny, hot, hot,
tent.
A bishop holds my passport,
there is no hope in sleep,
still,
things could be much worse.
#216
Familiarity in a
stranger’s face
as we wander in
opposite directions
across strange streets,
pleasantries in foreign tongues
and firm handshakes that transcend language,
combine to supportive movements
that nourish me for miles.
#217
Within these pages
is the simple truth
that my head has
more space
then i’d care
to admit.
You’d think you’d
do better
with all
this spare time.
#218
Constant droning
around my ears,
can i feel them crawling?
Biting? Or is it my
merciless imagination?
Physical and psychological warfare
i simply did not need.
#219
Foreign phonetics, like music
dance around the mouth
while the language of the eyes
as the i in the all,
speaks the word.
Thanks for joining! Find poems through out the week on my instagram @monsieurwrite
Don’t forget to check out the poems being recited on The Write Stuff podcast!
Take care, call your family, tell them you love them.
wazoo!
-Mr. Write