blissful, in this cup of lukewarm
red wine. divinely finding its way
down my throat and into this
growing pool of fecklessness
that sits, passive and distrustful,
in my belly. and i am getting drunk.
watching for shooting stars behind
electrical wires that hang
over the backyard, blocking any real
view of the sky.
the summer sky, found only within
the city limits. limitless in how little
it affects the soul.
i’ve lost sight of my shoes and,
wait, is that a fly swirling inside
my glass, drawing muddled circles
on the surface of that crimson nectar?
the grass pokes at my soles.
and i drink deeply of the wine. so
deep, i can hear the fly, flapping tiny
wings against the inside of my stomach,
ask me for the wine’s vintage.
and i tell him, i’m sorry little fly.
you have been lost to the ages, forgotten
in this grander scheme of backyards
and cheap drinks and dry grass
and, i should really find my shoes
before the ants, hearing how shamelessly
i imbibed their fly cousin, attack my feet.
because i know of the viciousness of
ants when slighted.