The prettiest dead moth I ever saw,
Or at least the most elaborately patterned,
A pink, black, and silver confection,
Was lying half-camouflaged
On the oil-blackened cement
By the fuel pumps of a small Sinclair station,
And the cashier told an old man
In dungarees who flirted with her
That yes, her day was just okay, not good,
Not having a good day at all. But I was,
Sheepishly and for no good reason,
Since I ached in most
Of my dysfunctional joints and was
Nearly as old as the old flirt
And fatter and falling apart
And probably soon to be as broke.
But you don't know where or why
Grace will descend, when
The prettiest dead moth might fly.
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