Upon Seeing a Lost Beetle

A shiny black beetle plunges 
into the crumpled white tissues
in the bathroom garbage.

Wandering over the uneven ridges and ripples of crinkled disposable single-use paper products,
it stiltedly stops, tentatively backs up.
Here, a jerky turn
like a first-time driver.

Can it tell the difference between perforated 
toilet paper sheets covered in the dried residue of isopropyl alcohol and used strands of mint-waxed floss?Does it feel the tissue’s infusion of aloe and lotion on its stick figure legs as it crisscrosses crevices and crevasses and dips into the depths of tissue canyons, resurfacing every so often from deep within the creases?

Above a land covered in bleached white paper 
chemically softened for tender noses, I wonder, 
is it soft enough for lost beetles with tiny feet and legs, 
hard exoskeletons, 
and instinct?

REBECCA M. ROSS

Rebecca M. Ross has been writing since the early days of penmanship lessons and spelling stories. She is an avid hiker, educator, and Phishhead currently residing in New York’s Hudson Valley in a house filled with a gaggle of people and pets. Her writing was recently published in Peeking Cat Poetry Magazine.