Return to Top
The Flies and the Fixture
The fixture dangles overhead.
Bare walls reflect its light,
and they become chartreuse.
Flies meander about, taunting me
with a boisterous buzz.
Perhaps these destitute walls create an echo
A painting would be nice,
or a curtain or two.
The bourgeoisie convene
in the next room.
(Surely they hear the flies.)
A flippant breeze whistles
traipses past my window.
Another crawls through the air
and the fixture is a pendulum;
the shadows dance.
Two pompous bulbs remain
as I begin to flicker;
the shadows slow their waltz.
The flies have all adjourned
leaving an eloquent silence.
The day ends; it is not tragic.