Just My Pluck
Image 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.
Pluck.
The hand searches for another whisker,
And Buzz leaves the room.
