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STINK BUG

I caught its movement out of the corner

of my eye while overhauling an old poem

in the middle of the night. Its slow

and measured stride spoke of purpose

and determination. With mounting curiosity,

I watched it trek across the pages of my work

until it stopped, as though to make a mental note,

no more impressed with what was written

than with my presence in its life. From where

in the poem my critic crawled I could not tell,

which left no better option than to plug

my nose, clear the desk, and start again.


By Chris Basher (also writing as P. D. Kline), Pea Soup, p. 64. 2024.


stink-bug

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