Bug

I wondered how you'd got in
 
I wondered how you'd leave
 
Neither fly-sized nor head of pin
 
You lept along my sleeve
 
 
I pondered 'bout your journey
 
Had you spent a life alone
 
Of food I had not any
 
I felt it wasn't right that you had
 
called my house your home
 
 
You flickered over to my book
 
you lit up words on page
 
then crawled inside a little nook
 
perhaps you were a sage
 
 
I prayed that you would take your thoughts
 
and spread the love elsewhere
 
I hoped you'd find your common sorts
 
and get out of my hair
 
 
After our meditations, you scattered to the top
 
and trapezed long each leaf edge
 
then came to a grinding stop
 
I spoke to you to fly away
 
but you refused to budge
 
 
So I gently condescended 
 
my pointer did hold out
 
because night story had ended
 
time to put lights out
 
 
I did not wish to catch your claws
 
or squash you in the snapping
 
so gently placed you near the door
 
and hoped you'd leave aflapping
 
 
You sprang in air I knew not where
 
and I hoped that you were free
 
because I tried be very fair
 
and let all beings be
 
 
But in the morning I awake
 
groggy and half blind
 
stumbling with a thirst to slake
 
and dream residue of insect kind
 
 
So how was I supposed to know
 
you'd bivouacked in my cup
 
My boiling water drowned your glow
 
as you came floating up
 
 
I do not understand this one
 
what narrative to portend
 
my knowing you was kind of fun
 
but what a futile end