Blustering tornadoes of ire
spin from my head,
the blipping computer lost its net, yet again.
Even the background of rosy sundrenched sea
does little to quell the storm which brews
gremlins of an esoteric bent
skid with ease from flat screen~
~to flat screen attacking the saucy skirt of
the satellite dish next…
Soundless talking heads waggle tongues
tuneless dog tails, tattling tirades~
Green around the gills I salmon toward the kitchen.
going for tea but the gremlins get there first.
The microwave is fried black~
leaving me with an empty cup on my knobby knees
searching for the bone-dry kettle.
Ah well, having rounded the last pedal
of the third clover leaf ~’~
I smile, trouble only comes in three’s!