Oh Fruit Fly

Oh fruit fly.

I didn’t kill you today.

You can thank my daughter, who

watched me massacre members of

your family and pointedly asked me,

aren’t they animals, too? I was

annoyed. Your tribe’s settled in the

panhandle of my sink, trouped through

my bathroom, sent some pioneers

into my bedroom, and now you – at

the top of my windshield, taunting

me, plaguing my patience. But.

I notice you are dainty. Your legs

impossibly sleek, your body

slight, your wings perfect

translucent tear drops. You

are as precise and delicate

as the master stroke of ink

from the brush of a zen

master signing his name

on rice paper.  You walk

on the window as if it

is the sky. Where would

I be without you?

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