Fly in the Window
A fly crawls down the window
between East Colfax Avenue and me.
Butter, preternaturally yellow,
fails to melt on pancakes like dough.
Coffee's good though.
I was on my fourth cup,
ready to drink it up and be gone.
Observations had been dropping
of their own weight
all morning long.
Sailing through blackness,
vaguely liquid and hollow
the obfuscation of the heart's crystalline nature.
To inevitably follow:
the fungus that would grow on the brain.
The sun began to warm my hand through
the fly buzzed off somewhere.
I began to hear
the contented clink of cups on saucers
and the soft chatter of the regulars
unfolding their day
like the morning papers.
Suddenly, all weight of decision
is lifted from me.
Today is a good day
to pursue wisps of poems
through the city
on foot. . . .