Little brown beggar, hobo of crumbs, unintentionally discarded
pieces of kugel, also my missing lentils, why, when wiley ants, clever
silverfish, and simple beetles flee, ever phobic of human-seized shoes,
occasional toxic mists, minute traps, do you brazen kitchen counters, sinks,
bathroom tiles? No borax-laced sugar cube deters your creeping.
I recall when you skulked up Aunt Stephanies chair, across
her shoulders, and then through her wig, before jumping from those acrylic
curls, the ones tightened too long across pink and lime green rollers, only to
cavalierly land just past the bridge of her nose, rear legs first, in her
precious, individually-portioned pot of onion soup. Upon noticing your unsubtle
descent, Uncle Eddie, his head atilt from excessive much small talk, eyes
closed against neighborhood gossip, harangues about open toothpaste tubes, and
the unremitting, unpatterned screeching of six of my cousins, smiled from one
corner of his mouth. He slit his lids a tad, moreover.
Thereafter, Sami, plus Julie, reached, palms down, to squash
you. Eugene jumped up to find a jar. Tabatha screamed. JerriAnne screamed.
Tracey whimpered as he backed away from the table. Aunt Stephanie, freshly
thunderstruck, fell backwards, chair, false hair, plus the rest of her
ill-conceived assemblage. Upon righting herself, she fled the room, waving her
arms faster than sky-fastened ducks suddenly alerted to hunting season. She
anchored at my house, where your relatives, the ones who had taken sanctuary
within our walls, greeted her.