a ladybug
fluttered in the
kitchen one morning

late summer, it was
and she a sun spot
in the flickering weak
fluorescence
of kitchen light, faded
water stained wallpaper
thirsting plants.

she said to me, that ladybug
that I was quick to judge
in that summer heat
it was a lady-bug
and not a lord-bug
(as it was, she was—
a he, that is)

i offered milord a drink
as a bespeckled bug like he
would very likely
be very thirsty

old, he was
a frail nobility beneath
an ink blotted crumpled petal
trembling red cloak

he sipped a drop of dew
dandelion wine
and gossiped

about the moth—
flying too close to the sun!
(an icarus complex)
and the ant,
those ignorant beasts
(heads in the sand)

merely garden philosophy,
for these lords and ladies
are as simple as they seem

Icarus—son of Daedelus, which is more than likely spelled wrong. Flew too close to the sun and melted the wax holding his wings together, plummeted, and drowned. Cheerful story, eh?