42234 Poem by RIC BASTASA

our instinct is always
to look at the color of the
butterfly first

we do not bother if it is
lost in our room and anxious
to find where is the exit window
which you closed beforehand

if it is black it could mean death
the brown one means money

what i have today is a white one
fluttering like a dream
it is so beautiful
but i have no right to kill it
by letting it stay

there is no nectar for a flower in my room
to survive for at least this day
its admired purity has to go
outside my window