Fly Poem by robert dickerson

poor, famished fly
wobbling crazily
up the mirror's plane you climb
grubbing for toothpaste and shaving cream
watching your own decline
for pity's sake I would kill you
but haven't the time.

different from the day
when bitten by the chill
still full of buzz-y brio you flew in
lured by who knows which aromas
over the fatal sill
thinking you'd found
the double Floridas.

yet, if Fate hadn't smiled
her guileful smile
and, like a needle pulling thread, lead
you through the barely-opened pane
by this time you'd be dead-
beyond the reach of pity, both, and shame.