Tuesday, December 01, 2009

That Bad Poem

Here's that bad poem I was talking about yesterday; written to fill some time between when I worked out and when I watched the Saints stomp the Pats.

Just My Pluck

shoo flyImage by nick kulas via Flickr

Staring out the window.
Searching for patterns in the texture of the ceiling.
An idle hand subconsciously searches for a wild hair
Take me somewhere, I say to my mind.
The house creaks with shifted weight.
Follow me, it says, but it is old and senile.
A fly, no business being alive after several first frosts,
Sets a meandering path around the room.
Do I salute you for your stamina,
Or take out the trash?, I ask.
It lands on the window, as if to sit for a chat,
Then says nothing.
So quiet my ears create their own pitch,
Like a dog whistle calling me to another place.
A place cold enough to justify a fire, perhaps.
For my fly and me.
I will call him Buzz.
The hand searches for another whisker,
And Buzz leaves the room.