The first I knew of you
Was a dry, feeble crunch against my skin.
There you were, a shiny, flattened thing
Pinned to the carpet. No longer whole.
Wings spread out, red spots on black
Like dice, three dots apiece
Lucky number six, except not so lucky for you.
Poor dead ladybird.
You’ll never fly away home, because
My right foot is a murderer.
I scraped you off the carpet with a teaspoon.
Said a few words of regret, threw you in the bin.
Wondered, for a moment, what might have been.
Washed your pulverised antennae off my foot
And went about my business.