Bad Poetry

I work from home now and set my own schedule, which means the moment is ripe for lots of bad poetry. Here are two quickies from this morning.

THE DIPLOMAT

My son will not kill a bug.

I joyfully squish the nasty insect

swooping down with my shoe

triumphantly celebrating a world

with one less bug.

My son will not kill a bug.

His white tissue is a flag of parley.

He gently swaddles his new friend

and negotiates its release

out the kitchen window.

THE RETIREE

My neighbor just retired.

This has happened to me before.

My quiet days buried under

buzz saws and motors.

I doubt this neighbor

will rebuild a motorcycle engine

in a San Francisco apartment,

but I hear the desperate activity upstairs,

footfalls of a searching soul

and I tremble

as generations of wives and neighbors

have trembled at the prospect

of a recent retiree.