Sunday, October 13, 2013

Dead flies: A Love Poem.

There are exactly three flies 
Left in the Methow Valley.
One sits on your window sill. 
It lounges on the dust 
You've been meaning to get to. 
It rises slowly and taunts 
Its wings heft the couch potato--
A procrastinator. 
He should be dead,
If not for the abundant food 
He'd have kicked last night,
But his heart just wasn't into it. 

The other two float in my coffee.  
As the morning sunk its teeth 
Deep into the day, the cup
Left abandoned in a search for socks
Which may or may not match. 
They saw the tepid opportunity. 
They did not choose wine--
The romantic approach.
They just looked at each other,
Shrugged, and hung heads low. 
"Not another Monday," 
And got the job done in no time. 

I imagine them holding hands. 
Not wanting to go it alone. 
Into a cup 2/3 full of liquid muse. 
We should be so lucky.  To find 
That worthy pairing in the world. 
But really, all love aside
With the population of flies--
They were just lucky enough 
To find someone
Good enough to share their last
Moments over a cold cup of joe. 

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