A fly lands on your high chair
in a gap between a bean chilli stain
and the juice from a squashed grape.
Your hands are linked together
resting on your lap like a Bond villain.
The fly is bumbling left to right,
left to right, with no purpose.
Neither of you know what you are.
You say the word Look and point
and the fly jumps off the edge
and out the window and you peer
over your shoulder searching for wings.
© Carl Burkitt 2021