it's late,
i'm tired, but not that tired,
so i will keep myself up
while the owls howl their abstract songs
in the mist of a nocturnal hunt
while crickets dance in rhythmic
syncopation, to and fro,
as the wild night frolics into chaos,
and i listen somewhere in the background,
counting made-up sheep to fall,
perhaps drift,
perhaps nod,
off, and off, and off
the dandelions came in,
marching through the field,
up the driveway,
through the front door,
demanding to be seen,
to be heard,
but i don’t know what the dandelions
want, but they look awfully nice
while yelling at me
a spider sits outside of my garage,
reading william s. burroughs,
while smoking a cigarette,
and i want to ask it to leave,
but i never paid attention when the science teacher
went over arachnology,
so it might be one of those mean spiders
that spits in my face, or even puts its cigarette out on me
Fred Aiken Writing 