The Fly

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

Misty-eyed, however I tried
not to cry in the tub ... I cried
as I recalled our red eye
flight to Napa to drink fine wine.

I'm not sure why I thought of you,
maybe the Bali Hai in the fridge,
when from the top of a beveled tile
I saw a fly drop into the water,
a bit surprised inasmuch I
seldom see flies this time of year.

Still, I couldn't let that fly,
so I scooped him out of the tub,
but there on the rug pile
my little fly died.

Under a bowl of potpourri I
found a doily to use as a shroud,
and then by the toilet what did I find
in the stylish waste paper basket,
but one of my poems of undying love
I crimped into a little casket.

"'Bye 'bye, little guy," I said to the fly.
"you too, Liz" I said to the poem
as the three of us took to water.