No Place for a Moth (First Draft)

No place for a

moth

I think as I curl my arms

my nose a handspan from the

dreary window

I can see its tiny silver filigree

the delicate coiled

proboscis

The moth clings

sideways

to the window desperately climbing

for escape from the air

conditioning

The train's rumble-clack

makes it slip

millimetre

by

millimetre

It disappears under my

view

then flies up to the window again

I daren't help it

daren't touch the grey powdered

wings

antennae of silver wire

I am waiting

watching

it intently as a hungry bird

but planning a rescue

stomach fluttering with its own

moths

when it slips

I think

Come this way

when it wanders in the wrong

direction

Somehow always it returns

parallel to my left

eye

Until the train pulls into

the covered platform when

the moth trustingly climbs

into my cold palm

as if sentient

understanding

my sympathy

I carefully cradle the

tiny

silver sculpture

I must seem an idiot or a

child

to the commuters with

my palms cupped around

my secret treasure

out of the station I lift

my sheltering hand away

inhaling fresh air and

the moth just sits quietly

on the tip of my index

finger as if to say

thank you

before it springs

into the air

weaving past commuters

a tiny grey

dot then

gone