We see the dying flies of near springtime…–a new poem

Image result for picture of a dead fly

We see the dying flies of springtime
up here upon this hill
tricked by the unseasonable warm
of a Wednesday
and cursing the mid-40s temps
that now rob them of there mobility and
make the air harder to gain for them
and easier for me to kill.

Let the record show that I
don’t be killing no critters
until they come into the house.
Their lives are miserable and
ending anyway,
I just help them to the ship.

The flies aren’t as resilient
as the stink bugs and the beetles,
who just take another nap.

No, actually,  they aren’t lady bugs;
they’re Japanese beetles;
lady bugs are red; these are orange.
If they were lady bugs, they might
listen when I tell them
if they don’t go back outside, they’re dead,
because there wouldn’t be the language barrier.

And it’s all just one of the reasons
I take it with a grain of salt
when people gush about
our quaint old house.
I just smile and say thank you
and don’t mention the bugs
or the drafts or the
copperheads to kill in the basement
and near the porch
when our children are out there playing.

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