In the back room
Where guests sleep
Where old coats and suit jackets hang in a closet
Where a desktop lays silent, abandoned by my father,
even though it still works very well.
The place to iron clothes in the morning
And eat strawberry cupcakes filled with jam.
In the back room
Where the ladybugs come to die.
Upon first glance they are lint balls,
Look again and they’re nasty dead bugs
Look closer, take the time, they become ladybugs.
In the backroom that is mostly dark and very hot
With a broken fan
And a moonless window.
This is where the ladybugs come to die.
In the room with a fat television that is frightening
When it is turned off.
That reflects the light seeping from the cracked door.
In the room with the spotless carpet
And soft yellow walls.
This is where the ladybugs come to die.
The room that is often very quiet
And often sealed away.
Mostly unneeded.
The room I sometimes forget about
Until the closet hangers scratch and rattle
And I hear them through my bedroom wall.

This is where the ladybugs come to die.
I forget them

I don’t know that they are there.
Until I stumble into the room, purposeless
And see them.
Then,
They are very sad.
Because they died
In this room.