The Kingfisher

The butterfly

I'm looking for a new word
to describe the day
when she breezes in
and asks for solace as though it were coffee
or perhaps she only wants coffee after all
and some company
that can hold up their end of the
bargain without fear of politics
and the stale accounting of suburban life.

She means gossip of course
whereby the sins of the world are unveiled
to the light of day
and thinking of this
I see that her skin is pink where it has caught the sun
the day before,
and now it emits a reflection
of the fires that rage a million miles away.

I'm looking for a sign
to decide which way to go,
which seems deeper than it's supposed to,
she says, trying to keep things light,
shading her eyes against the brightness.
An insect buzzes past,
I think a hurricane has formed
a thousand miles to the east,
and long before she goes I run out of things to say.