Bugs

I sulk in the backyard
Fuming over injustice
And not getting anywhere with
Anything.
It grows dark,
No moon to offer faint outlines of objects,
The blackest night I can remember.
I turn on the small outside light above the back door,
Which casts a dim glow over the small patch of grass,
Comforting to feel a sense of place.
I curl up on the warped plastic lounge chair,
Startled by the bugs that slam into the naked bulb.
Relentless, moths and beetles coalesce from the ether,
Appearing from nowhere
To attack the light.
They charge the faux fire,
Magnets,
Flailing their sturdy bodies
Over and over,
Bouncing away, buzzing, dizzy,
Then back again for more
Until their tiny energies drain
Or their soft parts stick to the light and sizzle.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Photo: Poem Fix