Obituary for the Bug

Whose Only Desire Was to Stomp
His Dirty Feet Across My Screen

I don't want to be inspired.
I want to stare lamely at bugs
that assuage the dark shades of night
until they find a bright liberation
in the alluring glow of my desktop screen.

I want to count their bristly steps
that pad across this page
without a dire thought.
I want numbers to gush forth –
to consume me in their consistency.

Figures multiply across my monitor.
10 percent has loaded into 54
as I wait transfixed by a lone bug.
Miniscule atop the bar it treads
with asphalt feet and charcoal wings.

30 steps seep into 400 greasy footprints
until I'm speaking in terms of 1000s
lost behind resolute eyes.
Whereas this avalanche of numbers
swells and storms past time.

I'm collapsing with this landslide.
Misled by deceptions of numbers -
of a time ruled by footprints.
I am being cast into swirling 8s and 2s.
Just when I'm about to congeal,

I crack through this binding plaster.
Bzzz... Splat!
Distraction ends with revenge.