A musky mattress vilified the room,
if only vibrant color set to bloom
whence upon a flippant day of August,
craquelure’d, a man stood, in the gloom.

Jagged-toothed with unkempt hair, he fled
in truth, the fitful frame was not his bed.
from the turmoil, lazy moths drew up,
flittering off the frock from which they fed.

The man, a curioso, planned to steal,
from his abode, it was conceived with zeal.
but nay, forsooth, not on this day,
it did not reveal.

But whom fell prey, disturbed that day,
the moth, the man, the air?
And if the house had laid alone,
whom would shed a care?

Perhaps a squeak? Or floorboard creek,
that prompted rumpled cloth.
Without disruption, would he still be
waltzing with the moths?