Fly Boom in My Room

Zip went the fly up and up and up to the moon-pitted ceiling, looping over and buzzing on in an impossible straight line till he reached the wall and dove — not straight now, but zigzagging, pulling up at the carpet — free, easy, a zillion eyes on wings, careening around the bedpost toward the bookshelf, beating the air into submission, screaming a fly scream, wishing for a horse, or a Twinkie, or a mate or some feces, charging, zooming, booming a fly boom, flipping six legs to a copy of, The Great Gatsby, landing on east egg beside the green light — in the water — hot, but happy.

It was his second day — his last.


— david j.


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