Why Gadflys Prefer Flamingos

This body, like an hour-glass, is not enough to contain his wants.

Intellect counts as nothing more than grains of sand, swept away

by a maelstrom of lust for a malleable woman.  


Sometimes I wonder why this scenario replays each time I commit 

to a relationship, entrusting him with a glass jar, squat and chipped,

yet more than adequate in times of need.


What moves him to opt for a junk shop flamingo, feathered in lurid pink?

When its head is so far removed from its body, it becomes 

just another ornament above a hearth, gathering dust.


Maybe it’s this.


A fumbled plaything with its head jammed between its legs,

seems better than a solid vessel, refusing to pour oil,

when the attraction of gadfly to glue, has lost its tack.




©Talia Hardy 2015


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