The Fly

The fly lies on its back,

legs flailing helplessly

It spins across the smooth surface of my desk

desperate to flip back onto its feet.

How did he manage to get stuck?

Why can't he push himself to the edge

and just,

fall off?

I watch him struggle,

wondering if I should help him.

Something tells me I should

that it's not kind to leave a creature in turmoil.

Yet,

I stay still

and continue to watch

as his legs slow.

How would I want someone to react

if I were the fly?

Wouldn't I want help,

so I'm no longer stuck?

Maybe I wouldn't.

I feel stuck in my own mind so often

maybe a death like his would be kind

it wouldn't seem cowardly.

It wouldn't have been my choice.

I got stuck, I couldn't for the life of me

get back to normal.

How torturous his death must be though,

only to feel his own blood stop flowing.

To starve while someone watches on.

I take a notebook and slide it under him

he is upright once more and quickly takes flight.

Will he remember my act of kindness,

or play it off as the way it was just meant to be?

If someone saved me

would I notice their hand?

Or would I look to the universe

asking why it's happening this way-

asking,

What makes me any more important than the fly?