Afternoon's Work

I can see the fluttering of two monarchs in the neighbor's garden.  And because I want to be the type of person who crosses the street to look at monarchs, I force myself to get up and cross the street.  I stand, doing my best to take notice, but I'm anxious to derive some kind of meaning from the noticing so I can go back across the street and write about it, which means of course that I'm not noticing at all, but rather thinking about what I should be noticing, and then thinking about how to write about what I'm not noticing because I'm too busy thinking about what I should write.

When a car comes by, 

the two monarchs flutter up 

and around before settling back down. 

Their bodies are fuzzy black 

with the cleanest white spots, 

a body builders dream body, 

all chest, legs thin as veins. 

Its proboscis throbs, 

probing the mound of a black eyed susan, 

its body convulsing with the afternoon's work.  

Its wings open and close.