I smooshed a little fruit fly
a-floating through the air
between my clapping hands, I did,
and saw his wee corpse there
no larger than a dot of ink
upon my right ring finger
and washed my hands a-thoroughly
in soap and warm tap water
and dried them to near dryness
on a dish towel hanging over
a chair nearby—
and then, thought I,
perhaps I shoun’ta killed him:
perhaps he was the happy type
that floats about a kitchen
to bring a grin, a visage bright
and ward off human sadness.
But killing bugs I sometimes do
to exorcise my badness,
or I’d kill dogs and maybe men
and maybe all mankind—
this little fly, he took one, then,
to save lives—yours and mine.
Monday, October 22, 2012 at 3:25 pm
Just got busted! I laughed at this (lol, as the kids would say) and an on-looker wanted to know why. “A poem,” said I.
Monday, October 22, 2012 at 3:39 pm
Finally! A scenario of vicarious atonement that actually computes.
Monday, November 12, 2012 at 5:52 pm
I’ll send a few your way/ to keep your badness all at bay/but I need them here I fear/ because I’m bad too – to be perfectly clear. Well, you made me laugh and wax badly poetic.