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I sat there, all alone,
and stared against the wall,
wallpaper peeling off
and funny brownish specs.
A fly sat patiently
worth waiting for a mate
six legs or eight
it mattered little
a long, curved stencil
with hairy fluff
it would be welcome.
But me, did no one care
about my soul
the one that looked
out from that fly
a kindred spirit
only human,
and old, not wise
just flashing
pretense again,
a lifetime now
thus far results
were so elusive
that's why I sit
and stare, eyes shut.
Will revelation
or salvation
ooze out from dusty
brittle mortar
yellowed with age
the home of crawlers?
Yet my last hope
before I take
that frigid piece
gunmetal blue
that Mr. Smith
or Master Wesson
had crafted finely
for such deeds.
And there he comes
assuming now
because he humps
onto her back
the act is swift
but listen, now
they're hanging in
for many minutes.
It gives me hope
and I turn off
the melancholy
and the morbid.
I now must find
a willing mate
and all will be
deliverance.
Herbert Nehrlich
Read poems about / on: funny, hope, home, alone
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