“Come on baby, it’s ok.”
Strands of my love's brown hair catch on the cloth seats
of my car as her head bobs limp. The seat-belt
comes off easily enough, allowing a good angle
to pick her up and set her upright 

against the car door.  Her breath
smells like *****.  Or is it whiskey?

My palms slip over the sweat on her
legs and the back of her blouse
as I try to pick her up.  Once there, her body
slides down my arms and bounces
against my chest, wild and insecure.  
The front door of her house creaks open.  

Light peers out over the shoulder
of her mom's silhouette onto
the driveway. She's shaking her head.  
Her hand half-covers
heavy, closed eyes.  At least she can
stay at the door; I'm carrying
my love myself this time.

When the boxelder beetle died in front
of me, it was in good company.  The drapes
covering the wood and pipes softened
the sunlight illuminating stain-glass arches
behind the *****, shrouding dozens of other
dead boxelders that littered the tiles.  As
the bug slowed to a halt, each leg twitched
instead of moving forward.  The sunday service
then began and the larger pipes of the *****
rumbled through the chapel, causing the floor
to hum along with the numerous insect corpses.  
Each beetle vibrated to a slight blur and shifted
in one direction or the other, except for the one
still living; it gripped to the tiles beneath.  But
as the song continued, the boxelder began
to shake like the rest, and by the final
cadence of the prelude, the six spindles
carrying the bug curled like hooks under
its shell, lowering the boxelder bug
enough to allow a fraction less light
to fall underneath it, just like the rest.