16. CW’s poem to AL

May 13, 2018

The Scout, by Chris Walsh

I wish

The fly

Doing a square dance

In the middle of my room

Would fuck off.

He (or maybe he’s a she,

Or a trans fly – do flies have gender?)

Is an outlier,

A scout for the global insect mind,

One of mother nature’s (MN is she/her)

League of mortal spies.

Does he look ill? she’ll ask the fly.

Is it time to send the man of the house down there?

Death. The Reaper.

Sometimes she gathers poor intelligence.

You can be washing up,

Or shopping,

Or doing your tax returns,

And the big man, Death, will knock,

Like an unwanted door to door salesman.

He’s selling eternity,

(Not a bad product

All things considered)

No, not now Death.

Can we do a week on Thursday?

Oh hang on, my driving licence doesn’t expire

Until 2045. I like driving,

Can it wait until after that?

That’s it, I’ve had enough.

I get up, clap my hands,

and send the little spy back

to mother’s arms.