Translucent diaphanous wings.
Only one of her
not like hummingbirds who flit.
Collector of juvenile items
pulled or shed.
Never antiques.
Never the payer,
she collects payments
for the collectibles she collects.
.
Fair in her fee structure
adjusted to inflation.
Remnants of my youth, worth a dime.
Collectibles from my son? Fifty cents.
Today?
One dollar or more.
Children grin,
proudly display gaps in their mouths.
Proof of her existence.
I wonder, is she swayed by wealth?
Or is she kind-hearted enough
to make pro-bono flights?
NAPOWRIMO 2026. Day 30! Last day of National Poetry Writing Month.
Prompt: Write a poem about a real or mythical being or profession with a musing yet dispassionate tone. AI image generated on Bing Create.
lillian the home poet 