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
From where I’m
perched here on the ledge
I can see his
sycophant flies buzzing
dropping honey on
his hair,
salivating over the
fruit bowl
which can use a bit
of blemish and bruise.
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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