I Need a June Bug

to rub me
a slick of luck. Hanging
down
as willow tree
sweeping dust
underneath my leaves
living in the shade
skimming the surface
without purpose
drooping
blowing
in the wind
a living umbrella
blocking the sun
from my eyes
sick of the façade
and one more tries
wanting to crawl
out of the hole
burrowing as a mole
in the dank tunnels
of life
not as myself
but somebody’s wife