I went walking

in the early hours of a day

of a dying summer,

and I happened across

a butterfly.

So beautiful and delicate,

the vivid black and yellow

of a tiger swallowtail,

fanning wings in the

early morning sun.

So struck was I

by its loveliness

that I almost didn’t notice

that it perched atop

a steaming pile

of dog shit.

And I thought to myself,

“I, too, have landed

in unfortunate circumstances,

either because of bad luck

or poor decision making,

but it was always up to me

how long I stayed there.”

The butterfly lingered

longer than I felt was appropriate,

only taking flight when

my dog went in for a sniff.

I walked away, disgusted,

acknowledging that

there is just no accounting

for taste.