Questions for a Visitor

Who are you?



I almost carried my red-and-white-checked napkin to the trash

to shake you in, thinking you were a thin crust of bread.

You are slim, tan bodied, topped with a dark brown head:

you could be a hit on the beach with that look

if it weren't for your long antennae, one-third of your length,

and six spindly legs, marching in place, and slender netted wings.



You were quite tolerant to be scrutinized

but when I coaxed you onto my hand, you turned frantic,

scurrying from fingertip to palm, over and over.

I transferred you from one fingertip to another to avoid squashing you

while I carried you out the screen door.

Why do creatures panic when you try to rescue them?



Outside, at first, you would not leave my fingertip,

exhausted from scrambling?

At last, I held my finger out to a brown table top printed on a flowery banner,

and there you sat.

Did you imagine that you were now safely camouflaged?

Again you indulged my curious, child-of-57-years-gawking.



Did you know I would soon tire of asking,

who are you?