I've never claimed to be a poet. In fact, I kind of hate writing. But I got a little inspiration this morning. And since K and I were talking about existential poetry yesterday, it seemed fitting to post it.
"The Fly With His Legs Stuck in My Window Screen"
Sometimes he twitches
But most of the time, he’s still.
He’s realized by now that he’s not getting out.
His life has come down to this moment—
Staring into the world that he so desperately wants to be a part of.
He remembers the days of flight, of freedom.
He remembers, also,
(as he stares out into the big green world)
The day he left it.
The allure of the unknown was too much to resist.
I wonder if his other fly friends tried to warn him--
Those that enter that world never come back.
His twitches come less often now.
He spends his time looking at his comrades
Who have also fallen to the Charybdis of my window screen.
He’ll eventually fall
After he dies.
Then I’ll sweep him up
And throw him away with the rest of the garbage.
exquisite.
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