Wild Kingdom

I sit typing and

a giant moth flies by me, the wind of her wings

going just past my ear

like a breath

to light

on the dirty fixture above.

A cricket sings in the next room while

lady bugs amass on the streaky, smeary window.

Tendrils of ivy

poke through the 100 year old gaps in this house,

easing in to gradually steal away my walls.

Until I will look down at my feet and see lush green

a verdant sponge around me.

As I type,

a bird will come and

sit on my shoulder digging his delicate, dry, sharp feet into my thin skin.

He will eat crackers from my mouth, the way

my writer friends’ parrot  did.

I type, and the keys become beetles,

wriggling beneath my fingertips,

trying to evade being made into words.

The children, who used to come in to dust me now and again,

have long given up

and retired to their rooms.

They hear the singing, the walls falling, the cracker nibbling

and the clackety-click of the keyboard beetles,

and they know

Mom is Writing.

Tags: lady bugs on the window, Poetry, where the wild things are, Writing