By Eileen Murphy

A caterpillar crossed
my sidewalk route,
green as Emerald City streets,
and lime Kool-Aid,
plump as balloons,
gallumphing along
like a Chinese New Year dragon,
segmented, confident,
off to smoke its hookah,
singing, "DEE-dee-DEE-dee--"

And I, fresh-tossed from the train,
tennis shoes sweat-lined,
neck like a tree trunk,
was plotting a migraine,
when, struck by its green-ness,
the swish of its skirts,
its leafy perfume,
I got lost in its lushness,
and watched as the green gate
of a garden opened,
and the caterpillar
crawled through, carefully
closing the gate
after itself.


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