stupid against the window, dropping,
zigzagging only to reappear on the opposite wall.
I wave my read plastic fly swatter, zeroing in for
a fatal blow, while you keep reading in bed,
oblivious to the grand battle across the room.
The fly is winning as I stumble like a drunk
from one side of the room to the other, tripping
on my pajama legs, wack! wack!
is retreat possible, a graceful admission of defeat,
will you notice the buzzing if I settle into my book,
if I say nothing, if I slip quietly under my summer
covers, if you hear it, will you be so gracious as
to pretend you do not?
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