There he goes or is it one of those floaters
roaming the outskirts of my eye?
He’s my personal fly, a meta-vision,
possibly a preview of my next incarnation.
I can let it loose like a fly on the wall
who has tales to tell if only he could
or that one where the customer calls the waiter over
to complain about the fly in his soup.
I’ll stay with the one on the wall even if
this fly is enjoying his backstroke in tomato bisque.
It’s a short span for either one dodging swatters.
Flies are not fleas but life flees in any case.
Amazing what you find out in the course of writing.
I just looked it up and fleas don’t fly they
don’t even have wings but they jump a lot,
sort of like words, those little black squiggles.
Back to flies, Trump has trouble with his.
I know this from my observation point on the wall
listening to his bumbling blather.
There goes another one.
I might be better off as the fly in the ointment
raising necessary havoc
from where I’m perched here on the ledge
salivating over the fruit bowl
which can use a bit of blemish and bruise
as I’m famous for in Dutch still-life,
portrayed on a pear or petal as death itself.
Not very flattering given our mission in the ecosystem
to feed on aphids, clean up decay and pollinate.
Where have all my floaters gone?
Could be impaled on that jagged
right-hand margin of a poem.
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