like the monarch

I wonder if the monarch knew
that he was about to die.
It would be the last time he flew.
Tears welled up in my eyes as I
stopped my walk along the highway
and stooped to hold someone
more broken down than me.
The feel of his flaked feathers
were as soothing as feeling
my frantic fingers touch leather,
finally finding my wallet underneath the seat.
I had that at least,
But what I needed most
I had to turn down.
You're not supposed
to accept an offerred ride.
So I walked with the monarch riding in my palm–
he was too broken to say no–
eyeing the chain link fence
that told me that I,
like the butterfly,
don't belong
along the highway
without a car.
It wasn't too far
of a walk to the shop
where I startled the man
whose wrench I had heard.
My throat was tight and I looked a sight
with my socks, pants and shoes
drenched deep in ditch dew.
While I dialed, he said, "My car is broke too."

Like I lifted the monarch,
the creeking old tow-truck
lifted up my broken-down car.
Now I rest beside Pootermobile
in perhaps his final resting place.
Five years, but only two birthdays together.
On this day of rest, we must wait to find out.
Like I let the dry wind take the broken butterfly
and carry him to rest in the dew,
I might have to let my car go too.