Butterfly House
I used to work here
my dream job
watering plants in a rubber uniform
dripping in the air that butterflies like.
Initially, I was praised for the careful way
I passed the drinks round
never once spraying an insect
always waiting for the ants to stop cutting and move along.
But I soon aroused concern
with my frequent falls
and it was suggested that a humid environment
was detrimental to my health.
The verbal warning came
when my pockets emptied as I fell
and a key to the thermostat
was found in the gravel.
Not only was my fainting disturbing to the general public
my actions were also in breach of my contract
which clearly states that
horticultural staff must not regulate the temperature of the butterfly house.
I tried to explain
that I just did it for a moment of release
from the relentless motion
and the clots of exhaustion
and the responsibility of turning up on time
to appointments
and social engagements
and thinking of something to say
and listening to the weather forecast
and dressing accordingly
and holding people in my hands
like they were butterflies
that could turn to dust
with the snap of my fist.
And that I only turned the thermostat up a notch
when my body started to acclimatise
and I began to fear losing those few minutes
after you come round
when you think
all of life is like this
Slow. Beautiful. Flying.
But it didn’t help my case.
And after a written warning had no effect
they lifted me out into the street
and I lay there like a log.
So now, I wear a hat and sunglasses
and show my annual season ticket
to a stranger at the desk
and then I walk
in the thick, wet air
just another visitor
cracking in the heat.
