So I turned on the headlights,
But before I could back up
An image made me stop.
On the cold wall was a warm moth
Shaped like a stealth bomber.
Could’ve been perfect, I thought,
With its antennae and tattooed wings,
Like an American Indian warrior
Who could get burned but wouldn’t flinch.
Could’ve been perfect, I thought,
If not for its wounded wing.
I wondered where it could’ve been,
For at nights when we’re fast asleep,
Others ply dangerous grounds
And wake up painfully wounded.
Jamison/11/16/07
No comments:
Post a Comment