---

i locked a fly inside my safe
to see if it could survive,
and two weeks later to my surprise
the fly still hadn’t died.

its incarceration wasn’t intentional,
of that i assure you –
i won’t pressure you with a confession of animal abusion –
but it just flew in there, that dumbass diptera
and, putting all semblance of a conscience aside,
from the moment i saw it hovering over the dirty dish brine
i cursed its damned bastard behind!
with wings that fly fast as it buzzes past
and irritates my fragile mind,
and a dirty sucky straw-hole for a mouth that eats garbage
for the supposed duration of its ironic adult life.

so i yelled out, “trapped you! ha ha!
asshole huh?”
and i closed the lid tight
with no plans to retrieve it for an entire fortnight.

and there was much celebration
and histrionic jubilation!
i listened to FM radio and did all sixteen dances
to the same 24 singles by Bryan Adams without scorning;
ate a KFC gravy meal with glory;
and made tantric love to my woman
at least for the purposes of this poem,
with no overt signs of supernatural omen
to stop me from assuming to see a dried-out husk
the next time i opened my personal Trust.

and now, fancying himself a modern-day Hugo
with sidebars that go on too long, you know,
our author now switches to the fly’s point of view
and, although this writer doesn’t consider
his own omnipresent inclusion as reliable narration,
we must still ponder in over-analytical suspension
what kept this fly living til its epilogical resurrection?

what was the reason for its persistence?
its perseverance?

what thoughts ran through its simple conception
of the mistake it made upon further reflection
to land in my safe on the tasty leather pouch
that holds neither snack nor treat
but budgetary concession?
is that, then, what supplied it strength in its detention?
the sweet oils from the palms of those who came before
to touch this pouch we got on clearance at the dollar store?
like a horse licks it’s salt
did the fly feast on grease
from the sweaty hands of the homosapienal beast?

or perhaps it was simply meant to be:
dealt in the cards;
written in the stars;
foretold by creepy old drunk dudes wearing scarves.
i opened its cage and here we are:
the fly was not marred,
simply barred.
i smushed it good.

uh…
au revoir!

//wd 6.24.2023

---