On the far edge of Damgoode Pizza’s black
table, it seemed a minute, distant world
orbiting space, elytra varnished dark-
auburn gold, like curved fleck from a Bradford
pear tree’s autumn leaf. I ripped a romaine’s
tip, blocking its sure path, followed by torn
corner of paper towel. Playing vain,
it ignored the plant scrap—a guest who scorns
leftovers—then embraced snow-white, refined
fragment as if treasuring home, circling
the towel scrap’s embossed core like a blind
trapper in snow. Thumb and finger curling
the fiber flake, I joined outdoors’ crisp air,
set the small life in grass. It disappeared.
Roger Armbrust
December 10, 2007
