Little bugs have found a home on my blanket here
the sweet green grass pokes through its shabby holes.
I have found a bit of peace this summer in the country
listening . . . watching . . . pondering
the way the clouds pass over the sun to cool me
the business of bugs doing their jobs so well
hoping as they run off with my crumbs
that I won't spy them . . . little thieves!
I have a feeling that they have ceased speaking
to their relatives . . . the roaches, who insist on
reading and nibbling your class papers
when night falls in that city school room.
A brook nearby, babbling its cool delicious bubbles
is tempting me to chuck these sneakers
and find a bit of ecstasy on the slippery rocks
maybe even get my ass a little wet
and squat . . . like a child who doesn't care
about green stained britches.
You must come here one day and listen
even the grass has something to say . . .
Joanne Cucinello
