The Moths Have Moved On
A cockroach ticks across the linoleum
looking for bits of food to sate its hunger,
always ready to scuttle under the fridge
if someone accidentally flips on the light.
Dust has settled on the boxes in the closet,
filled with ticket stubs and half empty albums.
The bananas on the bare counter
have traded their yellow for black.
The moths have given up their flutter
and moved on to other sources of light.
In the apartment upstairs Bambi’s mother
is shot and the children cry on cue.
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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 55 | Spring/Summer 2020