The Fly


I watch a frustrated fly—
bashing and crashing and smashing
its small body against the ceiling
until it drifts, dizzy and numb.
Buzzing and bashing,
smashing and screaming:
the solid ceiling won't give in
as it pushes and pushes and crashes and cries,
keening and choking for an escape.
Escape is delivered—
a hand looms, and the fly is swatted clear out of the air,
soaring forlornly across the room,
and splashing in a coffee cup full of cynicism,
where I watch it flounder,
thrashing and gasping,
waving its little tarsi,
wings wetly quivering,
and it drowns,