Hornets buzz in my blacked-out brain:
panicked, shrill, harpy-sweet.
Rough hands clamp my shoulders, press into stillness,
the motionless frenzy of deer before dogs
devour their entrails.

Two syllables as a question: my name
in a strange infliction. I pull away.
To him, it’s only another incident
to file downtown. Forms, testimonies
-- They’re my friends,
not a two-inch newspaper column,
an item next to idle gossip and
foreign wars.

(A Sequel to "A Few Days in My House after Hurricane "Irene")

I'm in the mood to experiment.

Uh-oh--right as I'm making my morning tea, too.

I shouldn't, I know, but yes, here it comes:

that feeling, that urge, that I just can't resist;

that enticing little voice that says "Just try it!"

The teapot shrieks and I'm helpless to fight it.

Here I go, once again, to "try it!"

So out comes the teacup from China;

in goes the teabag, steeping it strong;

in goes a good dash of nutmeg,

 and two big drops of lemon extract;

Oh dear! it hasn't let up, that feeling,

The main villian of a 1920s, historical fiction novel. Enjoy!!

~~~~~~~~~

Can one man so easily become a persistent terror to whoever come across him?