Where the dozy bluebottle has spent its winter
Ive no idea. Somewhere in the flat probably
which is not a thought I relish any more than large
and unexpected spiders in the bathroom.
Like helicopters in Vietnam War movies
I hear the buzzing rotor-blades of desperate
flight before I see the fly itself staggering
geriatrically, a Methuselah among Calliphoridae,
along our white-walled, newly-painted
hall. Swatting it would be easy if the colour
was red or black, but pristine, perfect white!
So I watch it bump and bash heroically
against the walls and windows, room by room,
while it tries and fails to find a door marked EXIT.
If you've any comment on this poem, Ken Head would be pleased to hear from you.