Killing an Old Fly

A fly meanders in my kitchen.
By its baritone buzz,
fat fuselage,
sagging speed,
I gather its old,
as flies are old
days? weeks?
and gorged on someones garbage,
maybe my own.

I lash at it with a magazine,
slicing the air, but its still quick enough
to sense movement and currents,
the flash in its kaleidoscopic eyes.
It eludes me twice,
but on the third swipe,
swat!

Its body quivers, then stills.
Its blood, or whatever it carried inside,
oozes on the tabletop.
I collect the remains with a paper towel,
and perform the cursory burial
into my wastebasket.

There was a time
I would commit such a murder
without a thought.
But tonight,
I feel a pang of remorse,
a pain that gets stronger every year.

06/29/2002

Posted on 06/29/2002
Copyright © 2026 Bruce W Niedt