by Holly Day.
the beetle stops running
and looks at me
through the jelly-glass walls
of its prison.
I don’t know how much air is in there
but I’m sure it’s enough for a tiny bug.
It stands up on its hind legs
waggles back and forth, trying
to find some foothold on the slick surface
but looking more like some cage dancer
gyrating for an extra dollar,
or perhaps for more air.
I tap on the glass
to make it stop degrading itself
shake the glass a little bit to send it closer
to the pile of cut grass and leaves
I’ve picked for it.
I think the glass is a fine home for a beetle
and I don’t think it has any right to complain.