Ladybird, ladybird fly away home,
Your house is on fire
and your children are gone
There are forty-nine dead
ladybugs in the light
at the end of the hall.
And I haven’t said a thing.
The lady bug crawls on my finger,
like I climb a moving mountain.
In the light at the classroom
at the end of the hall
there are sixty-two dead ladybugs.
And one living ladybug
Ladybugs do not drink Bourbon.
Little black feet
crawling on the wrong side of the window
for a monster movie perspective.
The above inspired by Wallace Steven’s “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird.”