My Butterfly Again
My butterfly has disappeared,
by Herbert Nehrlich
this man admits to snatching her.
What else would he have commandeered
before or after catching her?
Some years ago, while on a train,
I saw an angel face,
I tried to get to her in vain,
'twas not to be the case.
I wonder now, could it not be
that she was called IRENE,
and that she and my butterfly
live happy and serene
in Tweed Heads on the Aussie coast
and with another poet.
I might just make it uppermost
to check this out - you know it.
And if I find them, let's be clear:
They both can stay right there.
The girl will be a grandma, dear,
the butterfly could care.