A Fly on the Wall
On the ceiling (or under the ceiling) the fly went for a walk.
Thousands of his eye-lenses flashed at the scene below:
Secret handshakes, paper-bags, signalled deals, muffled talk.
On the table, over the platter, with his six thin feet for taste,
Puking and sucking jewelled berries, and ten gold apples of youth,
He observed the ice-bucket’s potential to collect the retching waste.
A fly on the wall, approaching the window, he planned to slip and tell;
But, the heat, the glare, the greed, the airless room
Sent him in circles, a swoon, a spiral. He fell.
A dead spy on the window sill.
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