Finally an experience worth turning into verse, so to speak, phone poem variety, almost metaphysical in substance, having to do with death and dying, among other things that can be crowded into four lines of fairly regular verse. Amen!
"Out Out!"
I smacked the damned mosquito,
Sucking on my arm,
Knocked its butt right through its head;
That's how it bought the farm.
I'm never sure it is a good thing to obliterate the little bastards while they have their straw into your body since the consequences seem to be worse for the body part thus violated. The swelling and the itch feel greater than they usually do, though I experienced a great sense of satisfaction upon sending the little demon back to Hell, where I am certain all Mosquitos must come from.
There are too many places in Mary's marvellous garden where these backyard Draculas might breed: the birdbath, the ceramic moose head, flower pot bottoms, but not, I think, the ponds. There the water keeps flowing and the fish are paid to be vigilant.