Tonight

Tonight, the world seems large and all too much—
dollar signs and plastic toys. I passed paper over a counter
today, greenish and smelling dirty, like that boy in fourth
grade who took baths rarely. My heart reached out to him.
I let him touch my pet caterpillar kept on my desk in
a jar.
I considered myself an insect zookeeper, didn’t know the
word
for insect specialist. I didn't ever want, anyhow, to
learn how to kill
mayflies or any other flying thing. Wings were kin to
angels.
I wondered why my art teacher’s son could see angels,
but I couldn’t. It troubled me. But being troubled over
wings
and miracles is not the same as the break in my brain
tonight.
If only I could’ve stopped time while studying the bees
in the mudpit earlier today, a five year-old child by my
side.
If the only thing I saw were wings when I shut my
eyes,
I’d rest well. I try, but President’s faces materialize,
stop my flight.