Fruit Flies

I watch the winged
drown in the cider
trap

feel
a tinge
sorry

for their floating bodies
no longer flitting
annoying gnats
helicoptering the tomatoes
the pears
the compost bucket.

I rationalize that
their last moments were
at least
debauched
for flies.

Then I reflect on
the soldiers
drowning in mud
swatted from this planet
wilfully
so I might eat this fruit
in freedom.

Comments

  1. …nice job on the poem… and the fleas… a distant relative died in the muck… now part of that universal compost bucket…

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