Slippers—taken,
plush robe, too: goose-
bumped flesh damping
remote-work ardor.
Sabotage. Conspiracies.
What next in their playbook
to frustrate his plans?

Toothpaste smear on toilet lid—
nowhere’s sacred.
Breakfast bar froot-looped,
coffee pot, juice jug,
milk carton drained,
the path to his study
a minefield of toys
cloaked in grape jelly.

He’s through to safety!
Hand to his chair,
butt to the seat—here, too:
laptop booby trapped,
a one-thousand-one piece
starship parked on its lid,
laser cannons poised

but he’ll not be deterred.
Carefully, carefully,
the starship moved to dry dock,
he opens his laptop,
quicksilver spreadsheet solutions
coursing to his fingertips—
they’ve bled the battery dead.


© by Darrell Petska.
Used with the author’s permission.