Arose

There is a bug crawling on the rose
I have sitting here on my desk,
White mottled pink petals curling
Slowly opening, arching, aching to reach the sun.
I ask the bug not why it is there
Nor how it got there, for I know
The answers. Yet I am curious.
Looking up and around me
I realise I am bathed in muted multicolour,
Busy, animated pictures dulled in the
Afternoon light. Blue post-it notes
Scream do-this and do-that,
When all I really want to do is just sit
And watch a tiny bug eat my rose.