This morning

while I fixed coffee,

a lone fruit fly sat on the rim of last night’s wine glass.

Where did it come from?

It is cooler now and the light has begun to change.

From Madison Square Park perhaps,

where it had been sitting on the edge of a bench,

eyeing a coconut gelato fallen by the pond.

Or atop the Met Life Building,

perched on the nose of a Gargoyle,

from where it imagined life as an angel.

But fruit flies cannot become angels.

They have Wings of Desire only for fruit.

And wine.

A few sips and one wants to fly.

Even if into one’s death in a glass of Zinfandel.