Fleaville: A Trilogy

a flea
Poem 1: The Early Battleground

One corner of this room is my enemy.
I search the clouds and I find my weapon:
itís a steam cleaner that burns my knee,
dripping a lone casualty from a chair wheel.
A hot cup of tea pours over more research
as my confidence grows tepid at the task.
I feel the cold of a condemned cell. Itís January
and my braveryís bluster is punctured by ice.
My small victory was a trial for my big defeat.
I admit it, so come in and freeze my tears.
Poem 2: Uncertainty

is the heavy beige blanket washed at 60 degrees,
the printer cables bluetacked onto the skirting board,
the tapestry armchair covers choking in a chemical fog
and the puddled fear that floral underwear
will bear the biting fruit of a life cycle
beyond the gloved reach of the pesticide nozzle.
Poem 3: The Only Good One is a Dead One
Surely this winter sock will be thick enough!
No, says no. 16 of an itchy 29 since October.
A Ninja bites back. Inside the front door,
a small black beetle, its casing upturned,
a container for recycling. He came, he saw.
Conquered by a toxic breath exhaled
for a legion Ė origin and first contact unknown.
A growing tribe of ctenocephalides, either
felis or canis or even uncomfortably human
like my red-pricked skin, encircled by black biro.
A tally, little comfort in black bin liners
pinned high onto thighs beyond a parasitic sky.
Their jump to Nirvana, an ascension from a mat.
Time to descend, friend, and with a plea
to leave me and my home, alone. Forever.

Susan Wilson

If you have any thoughts about this poem,  Susan Wilson   would be pleased to hear them