The Miniature Monster

The miniature yorkie downstairs
drives jagged yelps through the floor,
forcing disfiguring nerve-chill wrenches
up my sleeping spine. I fly jersey sheet

war-flags, my tossling an act of aggression.
Fortified in my disheveled bed, I stragitize:

I could stomp thunder down into its room
through these dying, paper-crust floors
like an angry god, bellowing
my case below, cursing the dog's cries.

I sheepishly decide, slugging onto my back,
this plan is reactionary at best.
There is no sense of satisfying vengeance
for the casualty of another night.
And I would have to leave my coven base-bed.

With more sonorious rounds firing
from that putrid, tiny mouth downstairs,
I explore alternate campaigns,
bellycrawling through the impossibility of sleep.

Some Haiku

I stole the ripcord,
baby. I’ll regret watching
you tumble away.

Panicked breezes flush
cherry blossoms on my cheeks
these winter mornings.

Craft another lie
with bent truths and half smiles.
You've made it an art.