Release the Sterile Moths

The flutter, apple brown, invites
          a certain scientific approach
we just ain't nailed down yet.

We bamboozle these little peacherinos
          by dispersing some infertile mates
who in turn will flimflam the dickens
          out of prospective progenitors.

Every unpleasant bug deserves his day
          with the bunco artist rendition
of himself. Why shouldn't it end there?
          The barbarous insect ultimately

brought down with federal grants
          and pheromones. But always
another invader tends to come. Just ask
          the avocado commission.

Just ask the woodbine to show you
          where the varmints hide,
waiting to punk you in the plums.

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Copyright © 2011 D.A. Powell All rights reserved
from The Hampden-Sydney Poetry Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission