What's the matter?
Awful! An enormous...
An enormous what?
Oh. It probably came in today by the terrace door. So what?
So what? This is a Harlem fly.
Don't be silly. Flies are flies.
Wrong. This is a distinct species: Mosca harlemnis.
That's absurd. What's it doing in the bathroom, anyway?
Well, to paraphrase Shakespeare, copulating with my toothbrush!
You know I hate it when you talk about your toothbrush.
You don't understand. This fly is grazing in my bristles.
The Harlem fly is?
So? What a thing! Don't you know what that means?
I'm afraid not.
Honey, what do flies eat for dinner? In a word?
Well, ah, garbage. Garbage, I guess.
And what do flies carry- Harlem flies beyond others?
Um, ca-ca. Germs. Disease. On their little pseudopods.
So. What if I hadn't seen it? I'd've been exposed. I'd probably waste away, then. Unaccountably.
And it would have been all be my fault. Honey, don't be so bourgeois. Lucky you saw it. Now, come to bed.
You don't understand. You know I can't just forget these things.
I have to mull them over- the merest scratch. You know how things stick in my mind.
Bother! what did....
Comments about this poem (Arghh! by Morgan Michaels )
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