“DON’T CHASE BUTTERFLIES— BUY A POSTCARD INSTEAD”
I spent that day standing in long lines,
waiting to enter exhibits at the museum.
I paid sixty dollars for my girlfriend and I
to see original props from Harry Potter.
I asked her, “what did you like better—
the special exhibit or the butterfly house?”
“The butterflies,” she giggled. I agreed.
We were walking in the direction of home
when I noticed the little girl in the dark,
fussing with her camera.
She was spending much time—
putting the Space Needle in focus.
A woman, much older, perhaps a grandmother,
stood behind the little girl.
She placed two big mitts on
the small, fragile shoulders
and began to press down,
advising her, “Oh No Honey. Don’t bother.
We’ll just buy you a nice postcard— later.”
The girl kept fussing— and I was glad.
“THAT LITTLE GIRL WAS GOING TO BECOME
THE NEXT ANNIE LEIBOWITZ
UNTIL SHE CAME ALONG,”
I said loudly— passing by.
They both heard me— and I was glad.
Later, I grilled myself a sirloin
and ate it with a glass of wine, by myself.
My only regret of that cold December evening
was that I did not slaughter that cow—
and that I hadn’t stomped those grapes;
But she was an older lady—
and I’d have just been making vinegar— not wine.
Besides, by that time, my feet felt as though I had.
It had been a very long day—
full of assholes in souvenir shops.