They call them palmetto bugs
I would rather not call them at all
but the large water insect climbed
onto the bed last night
and scampered across my foot
as if it were some bug rec center climbing wall
and of course
I jerked awake.

But who am I
to write a poem
about bugs
about insomnia
or rather post-insect insomnia

The person I send money to–
the one who teaches poetry–
as if poem-ing could be taught–
he says I am exactly the one
to write a poem about night bugs
and insomnia
He does not worry about those things
he has people who check
who exterminate on site, on sight.

(side note:
if terminate is to kill
is exterminate to bring
those creatures back to life?)

I can upgrade my classes
a new course, of course
for a modest monthly fee
and I could be a better poet
that is the way it works, right?
just add money?
I don’t see Mary Oliver doing it that way,
but I could be wrong
I frequently am
imposter that I am.