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~Back to the Flies~

We departed the coastside
where you copped your zany hat. 

When the bus finally got to the flatlands
you were unaware of the tragic citation
stuck to the windshield of your jacked-up car.

I remember how an old friend of yours blew you away

as he tongued his harp
at the Shut-Up-and-Sing Bar and Grill.

It seems as far as you were concerned

it's always Friday night and drunk outside.

But, back to the flies I mentioned over on the coast:

I found one had drowned in your half-empty wineglass.
Its soaked wings lost their buzz,
its eyes, drunk-blind and red. I left it
for the busboy to put to rest down the drain.

The ceiling fan hummed, and the air it moved
played with the owner's hair as he looked
back at me over his shoulder. He saw
the sun go down directly behind my head
as I watched his favorite waitress
pour her one-millionth cup of coffee,
leaving room for sugar and cream.

D. B. Tompsett