Lovebugs

Poetry

Dayna Patterson



Late April, and it’s lovebug season.
Their small bodies rain softly

on my windshield, the smaller male
and the larger female, joined

at the genitals for up to three days
of coital bliss. Human

copulation is quick in comparison.
I imagine making excuses for a couple

whose mating session is in progress.
The Robinsons are indisposed. They

won't be at the beach house after all.
Or maybe we, like the lovebugs,

would learn to cope, continue
our rounds hip to hip, a blanket

wrapped and pinned around us
as we made our spectacular

party entrance, all the couples fleeing
the futon to make room for our

braided legs,
our discreet moans.



Previous Next