tagNon-Erotic PoetryThe House Fly

The House Fly

bygreenmountaineer©

"An animal's eyes have the power to speak a great language."
Martin Buber


That wretched February blew my mind's
sweet dreams of love and mai tais in Maui
like a typhoon the time I was drowning
my sorrow with beer that tasted lousy
when onto my bathtub flew a house fly
whose one hundred eyes wouldn't be lucid
at that time of year next to a human,
glad to find someone else who was stupid.

So what is so rare as a day in June?
Perfect love and a fly in the winter
that should have flown but fell in the water
after I swatted it with my finger.
Well, I wouldn't let that fly on my watch,
so I tossed it on a shag rug nearby
after I ladled it up from the tub,
but there in the pile, my house fly died.

I don't know why when I jumped from the tub
I didn't toss it into the toilet,
but loaded for bear I barely sprinted
into the bedroom to find a doily
that, serving no purpose, could be a shroud
I wrapped the fly in on her vanity
and lifted from her waste paper basket
my verses about how cold life can be.

And I laughed at how that funeral rite
with a half-baked poem pulled from a basket
cleansed like baptism unlike eulogies
when I folded it into a casket,
content that I found a purpose for it,
no longer wanting to read myself lies
from a piece of sheet I somehow disguised
that had more I's than a house fly in it.

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