by Jenny Morelli
It seemed innocent at first, all those tiny little bugs marching by, each with a crumb they filched from a chip I dropped, but as I watched them parade across the porch, they grew larger and larger, from the size of a rice grain to the size of my pinky to the size of my pen, then the size of my shoe.
They grew big as the thoughts in my mind as the words on this page, as the panic wedged sideways in my throat as they stood on their hind legs to the height of my door, as they pushed that door open and greeted me face to face, their heads swiveling left and right, their red eyes blinking, their mouthparts clicking as if trying to speak.
They surrounded me. Towered over me. Tilted their heads to inspect me as I tried to scream, tried to swat them away, tried to run through their legs and skitter across my floor filching crumbs in my path as they reached for the pest-control spray to shoo me from the house that was no longer mine, and all because I forgot to debug my computer.
Jenny Morelli is a NJ high school English teacher who lives with her husband, cat, and myriad yard pets. She seeks inspiration in everything around her. She’s published in several literary magazines including Red Rose Thorns, Spillwords, Scars tv. This is her fourth poetry chapbook with Bottlecap Press. Check out her website for more: JennyMorelliWrites.com
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