A Bad Idea

The bad idea won’t keep to itself.
It’s knocking around the kitchen,
slamming cupboard doors,
whistling out of tune,
disturbing my sleep.

The bad idea is shaking the bed
and asking to be relieved
of its terrible burden —
the curse of knowing and not knowing.
It laughs too loudly.
It’s under the house
and making the oddest noises.
The bad idea pokes and prods.
It sniffs my fingers then bites down hard,
reminding me of what’s best forgotten.
Far from shy, it knows no shame.
Salacious and licentious,
it wags its cute little tail provocatively.

I’ve put it away. I’ve thrown it out.
Yet there it sits, watching me,
endowed with an undeniable patience.
Like a cat, its underfoot and always hungry.
Like a pig, it squeals all the way
to the slaughterhouse.
An oafish thug, it glowers.

Those big red eyes, I can’t resist.
I entertain its factions.
I consider the possibilities.
Its tongue peppered with lies, I hear it out,
the clever angles, the huge potential.
Worn thin, I agree and ask,
“What’s the worst that could happen?”

And then it happens.