Incomplete Blackness

I really hate when I write down five and

barely eke out three.

And that got me to thinking—

as I walked around the track and spotted

that little, shiny, perfectly black beetle

with her hipped up back, chest to the ground,

going wherever it is that she was trying to get to;

with her rounded ass to the sun, looking tipsy

as she ambled over pebbles—

that I don’t always get done with

what I start or whole-heartedly set out to.

And I wonder of all the times

that I meant to ask—but forgot to—

things that more than made

me curious about you—and her—

just trivial things,

like where she keeps those

precious little beetle eggs buried,

and why you don’t always say what you

mean about us,

or if those tiny little legs ache

when she makes it home to wherever

it is that she goes to escape the rain;

And if you still like popcorn and Twizzlers

as much as you used to;

Why she doesn’t use her wings,

and why you stayed.

And the superb blackness of her

got me to wondering if your tears still taste

like salty, lilac raindrops

when you laugh so hard that they

won’t stop,

And do they wet your jet black lashes

like they used to.