Madame
Butterfly
swarmed into the room
and flourished,
dazzling our eyes
and egos with her
colours;
pestilently fly
and fatty as butter.
Her
glass always half
full
she eyed the room
for wealth,
as is the way
with social dealers.
The
light of the
party,
she tried to flutter
round herself;
so did others
and burnt their
feelers.
She
scoffed at me,
a moth in her shadow
- less colourful
by half,
so flitting by
on a current of
flattery,
I pulled her bright wings
off
and
pointed
and laughed.
