by Glen Martin Fitch
On shelf or counter
they will latent lie.
In supermarkets,
boxes 'neath the stairs,
or from a friend,
through ear or eye,
the sly contagious germ
will enter unawares.
And once infected
no help can you find.
First you'll deny it,
try to carry on
until the fever bans work
from your mind.
Your hands are hasty.
Appetite is gone.
You might as well give up.
Go home to bed.
Take phone off hook.
Turn heater on or fan.
Put coffee at your side.
Lamp over head.
For, though you'll toss and turn,
you're quite resolved to end
the mystery novel while you can,
'cause you can't function
till the murder's solved.
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ABOUT THE POET ~
Glen Fitch is a 16th Century poet lost in the 21st Century. Born near Niagara Falls, educated in the Catskills, thirty years on the Monterey Bay he now lives in Palm Springs. Retail not academics has paid the bills. Someday he will finish Spenser's "The Fairie Queene."
Last updated August 23, 2011