The Host

the host

I had a dream
about this bug that
kept following me,
wherever I went,
whomever I spoke to,
and I couldn’t kill it.
No matter how many times
I stomped on it and
thought it dead, it would wiggle
back to life, oozing its mock
to death and to me.
This bug was attached to me, it seemed.

In the dream, I began to organize
my closet, trying to restore a
balance of control, I guess.
Clothes by pattern, color, style
go here, there, and such.
Shoes underneath, belts in the drawer.
Order and balance.
But there the bug was, still
wiggling, oozing, mocking.

Then the realization came:
the only way to kill the bug
would be to kill the host.

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