Blonde Butterfly

The pub is low lit with gargling springs
In the corner sit a group of old caterpillar things
Their clothes aren’t designer but there’s contented rapport
When the young vibrant girls flutter in through the door

And the caterpillars smile, their chatter inviting
But one girl’s vanity causes her features to tighten
And her perfect blonde bob over perfect formed scowl
Makes it clear with caterpillars she will not sit down

And while her friends with Greek noses and split ends and spots
Hover down with the mulch her expression forms knots
She summons her mobile, rejects the affair
Desperate for classier insects out there

And we watch from our hide her elaborate displays
The humphing and deliberate avoiding of gaze
Then when it all gets too painful, she starts to insist
She can’t stick around; she might be on the guest list

And she turns from the crowd, she pockets her phone
Exhales as she flaps through the door on her own
The caterpillars smile then turn back to share
Their warm laughter and wriggles of words self aware

And I wonder where she flaps to or what she believes
Is the grass really greener upon other leaves?
Is that what happens when some of us maggots have grown?
Believing beauty to be currency all of its own

But I saw how her brow wrinkled, the bags under her eyes
Combine that with the alcohol units to thighs
And she can shun all she likes but the day will come when
She sees butterflies don’t die, they become caterpillars again