Last Fly of Summer

• There’s always that one—
• the last-born of the season.
• I spot him on the bathroom ceiling,
• wandering an aimless path,
• sunshine reflecting
• off his shimmery wings.
•  
• He’s there again the next day,
• and the next—
• still chill and unhurried,
• rubbing his legs,
• casually preening and grooming,
• late-blooming lothario of Suds City.
•  
• Day after day
• he prowls the slats of the blinds,
• hunting a partner or paramour—
• anything more
• than a fly’s eyes peepshow
• of a shower or shave.
•  
• Three weeks in and he’s still there—
• out of patience and belief,
• desperate for release or relief,
• banging aggressively against the
• unyielding glass,
• a buzzing fury seeking escape.
•  
• I watch him as I brush my teeth,
• admiring his tenacity—
• his limited capacity
• for problem solving.
• After all, the door has always been open
• to wider vistas.
•  
• Eventually, I find him upside down,
• legs waving feebly in the dregs
• of a bubbly bath, and I take pity—
• offering him a tissue shroud and
• a five-fingered funeral cortège
• to his resting place in the October leaves.

Photo by Oli Woodman on Unsplash