The JNAC Chronicles

Shut In Robert B. Shaw

Like many of us, born too late,
(like all of us, fenced in by fate),
the late October fly
will fondly live and die

insensible of the allure
of carrion or cow manure.
Withindoors day and night,
Propelled by appetite,

he circles with approving hums
a morning’s manna-fall of crumbs
hoping to find a smear
of jelly somewhere near.

In such an easeful habitat
while autumn wanes he waxes fat
and languorous, but not
enough to let the swat

of hasty, rolled-up magazine
eliminate him from the scene.
Outside, the air is chill.
Inside, he’s hard to kill.

Patrolling with adhesive feet
the ceiling under which we eat,
he captures at a glance
the slightest threat or chance,

and flaunts the facets of his eyes
that make him prince of household spies.
And as he watches, we,
if we look up, will see

a life of limits, like our own,
enclosed within a temperate zone,
not harsh, not insecure,
no challenge to endure,

but yet, with every buzz of need,
by trifles running out of speed.
One day he will be gone.
Then the real cold comes on.