A caterpillar writhes in the water.
I place it onto dry land.
It dies out of spite.
I come to the lake to meet the butcher.
Exchanging rotten meat for a contorted reflection.
He folds fresh compost into tomorrow’s headline.
The only dry land is stained linoleum.
The caterpillar reminds me I am not allowed a newspaper subscription.
My face stares, unmoving, in the clogged sink.
Morning meds are served bitter with a side of lukewarm coffee.
Always delivered, on time, to the fourth floor.
I swallow the insect,
and wait for it to crawl back up.