Butterfly and Maggot
What is wrong with you?
How dare you point your animal compass
in that direction.
You pair of soiled, faded jeans and baggy jacket.
You tattered ballcap and bald pate.
You gray stubble and lines tracking across
a face that had no business lighting up
at the sight of her.
She clicked the remote door opener
pulled her backpack out of the hatch,
swung it over her shoulder,
hair flying over her opposite shoulder,
to reveal her Marvel comics t-shirt.
Because she’s a kid,
Your oily stare slid right off of her,
but it pooled all around me.
And even a day later
I can’t quite
wash it off.