lady bug

on the back window of the car
i found a lady bug with six spots.
i asked him how long he'd been inside
& he scurried away, down into the
seat crevasse. i told him that he should
get out while he can, rolling down
the windows near the perkiomen trail--
the water wearing a dress. he's a stubborn
man who counted his spots like coins
as we passed each toll booth into 
New Jersey & then New York. he told
me that bridges cost too much &
considering the pot holes i agreed.
somewhere in the midst of crossing
the throng neck he realized that we
were leaving or that we had left.
he counted the street lamps in our
old driveway. he counted the cockroaches
on the front steps of the old apartment 
building. he began to weep quietly so i
asked if he wanted to talk about it.
he shook his head & i told him
about the lady bugs in the walls
of my parent's house-- how they emerged
mysteriously, unreadable omens
disappearing back into the seams of
the wood. he took out his ink pen
& asked me how many spots i would
have if i were a lady bug. i was
still driving so it was hard to
think, i came up with the number seven
because it used to be my favorite number,
a useful number. if you picked it up
it would make do for an umbrella.
the pen tickled as he drew & i gripped
the steering wheel as we passed 
strips of thai food places &
a colombian restaurant that made
me think of my mom. he said that his
mother liked to knit too-- that
she would miss him. that she would
knit him six gloves in october.
i don't ask him why he left. 
i imagine he will tell me in time. 
outside the new place i check 
the seven black spots
in the windows of the car. one for
each sin. i laughed. he tells me that
humans trust too much in symbols.
crawling up the back window he 
watched me unpack &
stayed there in the car all night.