I spy a ladybug
on top of my bathroom mirror.

Every so often, a ladybug
invades my fortified apartment.
I’m glad they’re not spies,
as far as I know.

She’s eyeing me now
and I know what she’s thinking.

“Um … is this some Caucasian mountain god,
tall and mountainous as he is?”

She sees me nick my cheek with my razor
and the tiny spot of blood that debuts.

She thinks to herself:
“Though this strange species
towers over me mightily,
it’s a lesser god than mine
because it bleeds.”

After her disparaging assessment,
she somehow, magically, walks down
the mirror like Jesus walking on water
and doesn’t fall off, as I or any living
human would, except maybe Jesus.

I see she’s preening herself in the mirror
and liking her reflection a little too much.
I never knew ladybugs were vain.

I’d like to kick her out of my apartment,
but it’s too cold outside,
and despite the fact she’s an intruder,
I don’t want her to freeze her ass off—
that is if ladybugs have asses.

So I just bid her farewell as I walk to my
computer and write this kind of ode to her,
while she’s probably still obsessing over
her looks in my bathroom mirror.

Someday I must school her on the fact
that looks fade and her personality is more
important than her fleeting looks.

Maybe tomorrow, if she sticks around.

Bob Boyd