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Wednesday, 13
by Melanie J YarbroughThere is a fly in my room,
he is big and loud,
bumping into everything between himself
and the outside.
He ends up between the screen and windowpane;
I cannot reach him
with my pink flower flyswatter
and he cannot reach
the alley between my house and the next,
though he can smell it.
I watch him with his puzzle,
scaling the screen I imagine he considers
cutting himself to pieces to just
get where he wants to be,
forgetting only
the other side has no use of pieces.
Slowly he finds the top of the screen,
despite fears that it would never end,
and he sits a second
atop the rusty edge,
rubs his hands-equivalent together.
I celebrate along,
"There you go!"
It's only a second though
and he is gone,
flies away and does not
bump
into one thing along the way. 08/13/2008 Posted on 08/13/2008
Copyright © 2024 Melanie J Yarbrough
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Charlie Morgan on 08/13/08 at 04:53 PM ...the travails of a fly hides the brilliance of this lil' piece, it[the pome[sic] starts out so simply your observing--[as poets do] his triumph thru tragedy, a simple to complex pome, like a fly's eye, is really thousand of angles from a mult-lensed socket, eh?...the the knot at the end made me grin wider... |
| Posted by Meghan Helmich on 08/13/08 at 06:08 PM this happened to me this weekend. i saw a big fly bouncing around my apartment so i opened the porch sliding door, where he originally came from, and he flew right out. i accepted the silent thanks. |
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