Day and night she flits about
over the Bash Bish waterfalls
elusively flying over the bubbles.
She wings her way from ladybugs
and fireflies as if being chased
by the Cropsey Maniac himself.
When I reach for her—
she calls me butterfingers, and screeches:
The bigger they are, the harder they fall.
She tells me I wear my pants too low
and ought to report to the lost and found.
After a lifetime of trying to grasp her,
I figure maybe it’s time to let her go.