DDT





“The moon is INCREDIBLE!”

I tell you over the phone
In a DDT haze

As I pull again
On an Indian Beedi
And the warm
Flavor of bare tobacco
Expands on my tongue
Whilst the cold
Winter air
Joins the smoke
From the small cigarette
As it burns
Down to
The tiny red string
Tied around
The base
By my fingers
Moments from going out
And my eyes
Fix upon
The thin jagged smile
Of the neighboring
Grey ghost satellite
Just beyond the
Black and boney reaching trees.

I pause.

I am taking my time
Arriving to your house
I know
But not on purpose.

I describe all of this to you
Over the phone
In a DDT fog.

You
Tell me sharply

“Stop with the words and get your ass over here quickly. I’ve been waiting.”

DDT has yet to kill
The delayed, slow and curious bug within.