Poetry

Fly

. . . only lived two days
A perpetual motion machine
first this way
then that
sampling everything
he could find
until the end
which he spent
hopping along the floor
and even then
he found something
to like –
a leftover crumb
from the dog’s
marrow treat
big enough
for all six
of his tiny feet
and that was that
Drifting into
a tiny fly dream
he never came back

Categories: Poetry

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