I’m on the daily lookout for flat brown shields
with antenna and wings––the marmorated stink bugs
that hitched a ride on some packing crates from China,
set up shop in Pennsylvania and opened a kiosk
in our bathroom selling stench and morning shrieks.
I peer in the shower, turn on the water, and inspect
the walls, ceiling and floor. I hang up my towel,
and toe the water before stepping in. Safe. I dunk
my head and wash my hair. Turning around to grab
the soap, I see it, clinging to the misty tile, a mountain
climber gingerly hugging the precipice. I aim the spray
and wash it, swirl, swirl to the drain, inhaling the vile odor.
© 2011 Kim King