-the cat sees a fly-

mid-August humidity, and important things stick

to things of less importance.

It's the Andrew Sisters harmonizing "Heat Wave"
from an old 78 rpm as scratched as my scalp, and

I'm living at the edge of the doldrums. 
without momentum I'll fall into the abyss.

so I’ll pack a picnic basket and head-out to

Marquis de Lafayette Park with the wife and kids,

or maybe pack a cooler of sandwiches, soft drinks, and various 
snacks, and stroll to Sandy Beach with acquaintances, or
maybe I'll drive to "Whistle" DeCarlo's installation at the Lodge
which I fear will be contentious, but who knows.
I think I'll just stick-around to watch the cat who sees a fly.

It’s one of those pesky houseflies which never seems

to land on a place where swatting is an option

preferring the rim of a tuna salad plate, or the delicate
mesh of the screen door leading to the backyard, or

the painting hanging on the living room wall where swatting

will leave an abstract expression of the fly's remains
on the picture plane which is otherwise figurative in nature.

but the cat follows the fly on the wing with a keen eye,

and with a one-pawed swipe from a seated position

the lazy-eyed housefly is stunned, 
falling on the rug where the cat flips it around 
like any common ball of fuzz then eats it.
nearing noontime and the temperature's rising
and 'though it isn't surprising that the Andrew Sisters
certainly can, (can-can) what I can't do is find my leopard-
print speedo, so Sandy Beach is out, and there's a gigantic

spider clinging to the inside split-oak weave of the picnic basket,

so the Marquis de Lafayette will have to wait for another day,–– but the cat

appears to be satisfied with a bellyful of housefly, so I guess
I'll take my chances and drive to the Lodge for "Whistle" DeCarlo's
installation which I fear will be contentious.