Feigned entry of a fly through the window,
wobbling out a dizzy tap-dance pattern on the wallpaper,
scatterbrained, seeing my room through a multitude of lenses.
Which picture is real to it? Which reality fits its head?
Everything hears the continuous mini-chainsaw buzz,
even the microbes that hide on its abdomen and mouth parts,
harboring contagions that breed influenza – germs have ears, right?
Fragile wings and legs of thread, short-lived, raisin-like speck,
the cause of dirtied drinks, consumed cow pies and itchy pets.
I shed a tear at its demise in the center of a spider’s web.
This time I am fortunate for my size in such a small matter
of tempting the spinner of Fate’s seamless, sticky death trap.