The Cupboard

It moves slowly,

a moth crawling

half-drunk on honey

across my kitchen table.

Where are your compatriots?

Perhaps in the cupboard,

drowning on the top

of a canister 
of cold-pressed olive oil

tiny brown wings 
slick against their bodies,

another casualty

soon to meet its burial

at the bottom of the sink.

For a moment

I think of removing

every old can of sliced tomatoes,

an endless line of aluminum,

to attack the grit

in the corners of the bottom shelf.

I do nothing

but watch the brown and white spots

of delicate wings unfold and stretch

toward a dim flickering light.

© 2012 d.c.p.