Cucaracha Number Two

In my efficiency apartment
above a garage on Hadley,
I sit on a long bench eating dinner
at a white picnic table
in my narrow kitchen.

A large flying shadow
swoops across the white walls.
"Oh, it's just a moth."
I shrug it off without looking.
Moths are quiet.
This one is buzzing.
I look up and my calm heart
crashes into my ribs.

I shift into overdrive.
A red cucaracha,
longer than my palm
with extra long wings
flies around my kitchen --
a mad bug on drugs.
Quick, to the closet
to grab the broom.
I wrap my hands
around the stick end,
swing the straw end in the air
thrashing the nasty cucaracha
against the walls
shredding it into broken pieces.

Guardian Angel

© 2008 photo and poem by Sue Miller

A friend crafted and gave me an angel,
made of gold foil wings, long blue
and white broomstick bandana skirt tied
at the waist, pea-sized pink and red bouquet
glued at the end of a twisted Tyvec arm,
a wooden ball for a head, rosy cheeks
on her light pine face, painted eyes
and an "L" for a nose, light curly blonde
bundle of hair with flair, yellow
garland for her miniature corona.

I have her suspended on a hook
by my turquoise door. I believe
she protects me from intruders
when I am asleep at night.
I believe she guards my apartment
while I am gone, repels
bad spirits with her other hand,
reassures me that things are fine,
gives me strength and faith to live

when I'm feeling tired or less worthy.