Out walking the fly, met girl with a flower

Out walking the fly, met girl with a flower

I have two tables.
One neat enough that performs as host to words like these but the other . . .

I’ll turn my head and dare to tell what’s there; tragic masks, three Munch girls in bright colours, a fly the size of my hand, chips, fingers, wings torn from an angel, trees, a spoon, jesters, jokers, fools and heralds, a helter-skelter, more trees, flowers, birds and bees, Stone Henge, caterpillars, church organs and flying saucers.

None of them stay long.

They’re all fly by night, precarious and either on their way to the bin. But some, a choice few, will be tidied away into small boxes with friends and family. Others get the dubious honour of being pressed flat and put to sleep under the table.

I could go on but isn’t that enough?

No I should mention there is a pair of scissors, a pane of dirty glass, and, last of all, a square of thick cardboard painted blue.

Cave man literature

Sour lollipop

Face rest

Found a dentist

Last balloon at the party

Flies on burning fries

Bar fly delivers