Loser Bait

Some of us are chum. Some of us are the come-hither honeycomb gleamy in the middle of the trap’s busted smile. Though I let myself a little off this hook, petard by which I flail, and fancy myself more flattered — no ugly worm! Humor me as hapless nymph, straight outta Bullfinch, minding my own beeswax, gamboling, or picking flowers (say daffodils), doing that unspecified stuff nymphs do with their hours, until spied by a layabout youth, or rapey God who leaps unerring, staglike, quicker than smoke, to the wrong idea. Or maybe the right? For didn’t I supply the tippy box, too? Notch the stick on which to prop it? Didn’t I fumble the clove hitch for the rope? Leave the trip lying obvious in the tall, buggy grass? Ever it was. Duh. Be the mat, and the left foot finds you welcome. Though there’s always a subject, a him or herself. But to name it calls it down, like Betelgeuse, or the IRS. It must be swell to have both deed and the entitlement, for leaners who hold our lien, consumers who consume like red tide ripping through a coastal lake? Who find themselves so very well when gazing in that kiddie pool, or any skinny inch of water. That guy, remember? How tell this tale without him? A story so hoary, his name’s Pre-Greek. What brought Narcissus down? A spotty case of the disdains, I think, a one-man performance where the actor hates his audience.