Bugs in My Bear

   (All kinds pictured, exuberant and jolly.)


There are no bugs in your bear,

creeping from his fuzzy ears
on their innumerable feet,

going in and out of your hair,

that pause and click with each other
about what they plan to do,

tap tap tapping on pillows
with inquisitive antennae,

teetering on the end of your nose
and peering down THESE ears.

There are no bugs in your bear,

waiting till you’re asleep at last
and the only sound in the house

is the cellophane rustle
of ten thousand thousand skittering bugs.

They don’t need moonlight
to find what they want.

Oh, they know what they’re doing;
they’ve done it millions of years.
They ate the dinosaurs.

Did you know you have a blanket that moves?

There are no bugs in your bear!

Your skin won't crawl,
lying awake in your room, hours,

jumping at noises and shrieking
when something tickles like this!

And this and this and this!

That bear came with a guarantee
it was absolutely insect-free.

Let’s hope no one left it outdoors
even a second.

(Parents look down.)

Yawn.

Telling makes us drowsy.
We must have our comfy bed.

What a day we had;
another starts tomorrow.

Least now you know what’s not to fear
in Teddy’s uninhabited ears.

It’s lights out. Yes, that’s right.
Good night, l’l wriggler. Grishka, good night.