Here they are again, and here
we are, with our desperate
intent. Roomfuls of poison
on all floors: spray cans, foggers
and smoke bombs, and the lure of
sticky traps for taking out
the boys. Nothing seems to work.
Come nightfall, the eye is caught
by a flutter of new life,
slowish and oblivious
to our angry hands. Too late
we grab and slap; the flicker
defies us and has designs
on our clothes, our peace of mind.
Second Nature: James Lindesay’s Poetry 