On a cold, gray rainy

Friday morning,

I saw a strawberry

on the sidewalk.

Crushed.

And I wondered

Who could have dropped it

Without picking it up?

And I wondered

Who could have stepped on it

Without seeing

That bright flash of red

On the cold, wet, gray

pavement?

(And I wondered

If I wrote that

with line breaks,

would it sound

like a poem?)

Suddenly, an extremely large flying cockroach flew in through the window, glanced off the wall, and buzzed my ear before landing on my bed.

I’ve dealt with cockroaches before, with great vengeance and might, but this was a somewhat unique situation: Kill it now and stain the sheets, or shoo it off and have it flying around and escaping deeper into the house to lay eggs and spread disease? I opted to go for the kill.

The challenge: swat it with my slipper, at such an angle and speed that it would suffer a mortal blow, but not so smashing that its viscera would spatter across the bedsheet from a burst wound.

I poised, and it tensed, wings raising to launch anew.

But I prevailed, with a sudden blow so quick that it severed one hairy leg, and sent the insect flying off the bed to the wood floor. It landed, bounced once, struggled a bit, then was still. Dead, yet unspattered — but for the single cockroach leg lying atop the sheet.

I triumphantly flicked the leg into the garbage, scooped the rest of the carcass into the garbage with a few squares of tissue, and drowned what remained of its life in 70% isopropyl alcohol.

Now excuse me, please. I need to go wash my ear.