Lesser Grapevine Looper

“Toasters are for bread,” I said,
Yet something like a leaf was glued on mine.
I was not wroth to find it was
A moth my father had let in.
The myth of mimicry proved true:
Both mute, soft wings a dead November brown,
The abdomen curled ’round in stem-like fashion.
His problem was my toaster’s not a tree—
It’s white, actually—but he was loth
To move, lest he be found.
And I, to his alarm, accosted him
And said, “Good evening, I’m your host.”
Good thing for him I don’t eat moth,
Or that moth would be toast.