Tuesday, February 28, 2017

A Monarch in the Subway

If I was reading,
I could be pouring over
any number of the two million
items put out that day:
as factual news article,
a joke, a myth,
a flinty poem,
a journal by someone
more innocent than I,
a novel about partners
I don’t have.

If I was dancing,
nothing would sway me
(like a sway back)
deterring me from the barre,
closing my eyes
to the ballet in leotard.

If I had a camera,
in black and white, my dextrous fingers
would uncoil, strand by strand—
and, a passenger
in the subway,
I would lift my eyes
to notice a monarch butterfly
with cloudy wings,
dying on the sidewalk. 

How can I capture you;
I can only
offend you with a lens,
and phone the metropolitan
to offer them your beauty's sleep.