Of Moths and of Men (I.P.)

The small, white moth, as if glued to the outside
of his window, hadn’t budged for simply days.
It began to unnerve him. It was almost like
being dogged by some perverted peeping Tom,
but what could he do? In his tower-block
‘room with a view’.

He studied the small, white moth in some detail –
quite pretty, in an insipid sort of a way; how
its wings quivered in the wind, yet, stubbornly,
it hung on. Maybe, it was dead, the thought
occurred to him...until it kind of twitched
its furry, little head.

Time passed – increasingly, he grew obsessed
with the small, white moth that stayed put,
hadn’t moved, not one fraction of an inch.
What was going through its mind? Boring
as hell, staring at him, staring at it; that is,
of course, if moths do think.

One afternoon, it rained – a passing squall.
The small, white moth was unfazed; kind of
took it in its stride; then the window-cleaners came.
He endeavoured to warn it off, by tapping the glass,
but it totally ignored him.“Fly, darn you, fly!”
he cried, again and again.

Tried semaphore, and acting it out, as in charades...
flapped his arms, but the men only thought him crazy,
or, at very least, stoned out of his brains. In the end,
all that was left was to watch as they washed the small,
white moth away, and, suddenly, he felt bereft...
like he’d lost a friend.