Laughing, She Said

She came to me in the dark of night.
A friend and I sat
Making quiet music when it was late
And we should have been still.

She came to me in the dark of night,
She, dark as night,
And eager to share--

For there on her one hand
Was a letter-sized notepad,
And on that a leaflet,
And on that a card,
And on that, confined in a circle of card
Defined by the rim of an upturned glass held firmly there by her other hand
Was a scorpion.

"It was in the bathtub," she said.
"Bathtub?" I thought.
I didn't get a bathtub.
Neither did I get a scorpion, though.
And at least she was sharing that.

I shined a flashlight, admired
The scorpion's curl, like the curl
Of stars in the sky.
Not far away, like they, but still,
Under its glass,
Safe to view.

Beneath it, layers of paper, cardboard, ink.
To slow its progress,
Should it try to dig its way out.

With flashlight and scorpion
We walked downhill,
Away from the buildings,
Away from the sleeping dreamers,
And there she released her captive --
Flipping it past a split-rail fence.

Laughing, she said:
"Do you think that will keep it out?"