Unwilling Lurker
He clings, desperate.
This is not how it’s supposed to be.
Summer is waxing;
days are long.
Temperatures should climb,
even at this early hour.
But, he’s cold,
too cold.
He cannot fly,
much less sweep to the arm
held so tantalizingly near.
He’s trapped,
limbs clamped to screen door.
His size, a full inch from head to tail,
cannot assist him here,
nor can ebony wings
marked with white design.
His needle,
dreaded torture device,
instigator of scratching ,
remains useless,
a prisoner against the mesh.
The sun will rise and warm him,
instantaneously bestowing flight,
but not if the woman sipping coffee
notices him lurking and swats,
killing the dratted mosquito.
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