Bedbug

I inhabit sleeping bodies,
drain minute seas of blood from them,
send disturbed images to the dreaming brain.
Inertia lets me settle to my work
but conflict I relish—
the irritation of the almost-asleep
is a goad that spurs me on,
the wild scratching of the insomniac
is both resistance and collusion.
The unwilling bed-inmate,
resentful before I start, is—
forgive me—my greatest joy.
To be so low
in the evolutionary scale
yet have this total power …
Wingless, flat, my body seems banal,
is inescapably subtle,
can track whatever is warmer
by one degree
than my environment.
When things get choppy,
it's best to join the chaos,
I find, and take my chances.
After a while, they sink back, gasping;
I give them time to recover, then …
In such interregnums, I dream a little myself
amidst the dirt and darkness,
but cannot say I wish anything to be different.