Lazing by, fat on aphids. A loathsome bunch of them try and flip-flop around my insides and die in the process. I burp rancid. Hopping was out of the question. There were no questions either. While I had life all figured out, or so, an unmindful car ambles by, whooshing me onto its front. I scramble on all sixes, staring emptily at the moron behind the wheel, as he parks like a bastard and runs out. People.
I wait and eye the plush insides and out. I begin questioning. Sigh. A burp frees a lucky aphid. I let him fly away.
I could fly. But I won’t.
I could trot by this dirty glass for the meadows but I can’t.
I could reach for the clouds of lingering aphids above me, but I don’t.
I could dance my wings and wait for a flying-by love, but I shan’t.
I choose to ride. My dear driver walks back in and shuts his door. He stares at me and contemplates the wipers and squirts for a minute. Shit. I am all over the place, as the mechanics scrape against the glass. The idiot forgets the squirt button and the wiper trashes his windshield like shit in one big scratch.
Giving up, he chokes the car and drives.
I fill my wings, thirty miles per hour. The two lonely hairs on my head slick back. And in one big hop, I am where I wasn’t. Whee.
So? The conveniences we pick for what.