Commonly, in Harlem, a screen door opening implies
the buzzy, busy entry of one of those enormous flies.
Why are these bugs so keen to trade an outside that seems nice enough
(and chockablock full of crud unclean)
for an inside, full of pesticide and stuff?
It seems they'd rather bang their heads against a windowpane
and once in, jealous of the sun, complain 'let me out, for heaven's sake-
there must be some mistake.'
I, though there must be a lesson in this, suspect, re-
stored to the great outdoors, the ingrate,
a repeat offender, like its host,
would probably do it again.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem