Fly

There’s a fly on my computer screen, and he’s staring at me, wondering, just what I’m doing with that rolled up magazine.

So he flies off the screen to investigate, and that would be his first mistake, because he landed on my nose, and that’s what started off this prose.

I shooed him away from my face but he just landed in another place, the magazine rolled, hand poised in the air, I moved to strike him sitting there.

But I missed and knocked over a drink instead, and that’s when he landed on my head.

Okay, I’m serious, now I’m mad. That was the last Diet Coke I had, you’d better watch out, you dirty fly, because the next time I swing, you’re going to die.

I swing and I miss, hit the stereo speakers, swing again and he flies but I cut one of my fingers, one more swing, and the magazine goes flying, but still that fly is no closer to dying.

Twenty minutes later, I sit here typing some more, with my phone, my remote and my Coke knocked on the floor, and I think that I probably should just go to bed, but there’s this damned fly sitting on top of my head.