Better Bug Screens

Bug screens have such tight knitting,

And for their purpose, it is quite fitting.

Their job is to protect a room from bugs,

And thank goodness for that, those winged thugs.

But when gazing at these protective screens,

Those teeny tiny holes make me want to scream.

This may seem irrational, but I promise it’s not,

Because these little squares are more than taught.

The more I think about it, the more it’s clear:

That if the spaces between the squares blear

Into smaller and smaller teeny tiny squares

That change to be better at saying beware,

The bugs they keep out will slowly fight back

Into insects that adapt to wriggle through cracks;

For as small and tight as these screens shrink

The bugs will follow and shrink to slink

Through the tiny checkers of the woven wires,

Smaller yet to their hearts’ desires.

And these screen-resistant bugs aren’t alone,

As culprits to better’s sickening to cologne.

Better is a word I cannot stand.

It’s unquantifiable, it’s boring, it’s disgustingly bland.

Because what is better if the bugs will shrink,

And what is better if the screens are in sync?

Bugs will get smaller, and that’s not all;

Races get faster, athletes are more tall.

Life gets more convenient, though really, it doesn’t.

Records are broken, days grow in dozens.

There’s nothing I hate more than things that ‘improve.’

It’s uncontrollable, it massive, it’s disgustingly huge.

I’d call it natural selection, but it’s more of a fetter,

Because what’s the point of better when it keeps getting better?