My Secret Moth Poem by Stephen Nephetson

On the moonlit slates
bathed in blue I first spied him
the moth
destroyer of humankind's cloth
With matchbox in hand
I approached his spot
with a cry of eureka
the moth I'd caught
And now every evening
I sit by my table
laughing at how the moth is unable
to escape his cardboard isolation
while I dine on meats and crabs
cutting my cheese in great thick slabs
my hungry prisoner flutters his wings
alone in his cell
freedom gone
no moon to chase
Just his desperate lonely face