Don’t Let The Bed Bugs Bite

Night strummed a battered acoustic,

sitting back in a rocking chair on the porch

playing the blues to a birdsong lament;

last post to the passing day, 

and it passed

to the sound of children 

saying their goodnight prayers:

just in time ….

here comes the moon peeping 

through lace thin clouds 

with a glint 

intent at mischief

creating sinister silhouettes. 

Night rustles a frou-frou

out on the prowl, chiffon whispers 

into tree top ears as bushes gossip

on a cooling breeze;

for darkness is a predatory beast

who preys on wild purple thoughts

and flights of fancy.

©2007 P.A.Levy

First published by Read This  #9 July 08