On the Second Day
On the second day,
The moth still sat, inert,
In the bowl of the urinal—
Still wedged between
The plastic of grating
Of the puck cover,
Still caressing
The deodorizing cake
That bakes in the warmth
Of several daily golden fountains:
In something personal.
By this time,
It had wings like wet,
Waxy tissue paper,
Folded to its body,
Which shribbled in
The humid, faux-sterile
Air.
The moth looked a paler shade,
Its skin warping to a half-way
Transparent wrinkle,
To a putrefied fold
Of dissolving empty space.
The poor moth.
I felt bad for it.
I tried to flush it again
To no avail,
So what else could I do?
I had to aim at the target
And take it down,
Sinking it momentarily
In the warmth of whatever
Left me,
Whatever traces of yerba mate
And morning shake might've
Percolated out
At 11: 14.
No offense to you, dear insect.
poem by Tim Stensloff
Added by Poetry Lover
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