Poems December 2012
Fruit flies
In crooked paths, they waft
through August, pinging from
fruit to fruit, gang aft
agley, then rest on plum
or Brandywine to lay
their careful schemes: in sum,
thousands of eggs per day.
They curse each coffee cup
to drink the cream, and pay
with life for that one taste.
But I, being a man,
have countless tries to waste
in winging rot to rot,
pursuing finer things.
The hands of others swat
me, rising up and up—
a driven little fly
bound for a coffee cup.
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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 31 Number 4, on page 49
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