Fly in the Urinal
There’s a fly in the
urinal, apparently deceased
No movement at all,
that I can see at least.
As I unzip, I wonder,
do flies have a soul?
Is there a fly heaven
where they can go?
Are there fly preachers
for this tiny species?
Promising rivers of
honey and mountains of feces
Vowing streets will be
paved with rotting meat
Exuding ambrosial fumes
in eternal heat.
There’d be no dread
swatters with dried guts of kin
And of course, no birds
or spiders would be allowed in.
But that’s all too
silly to seriously think so
They’re just not
important enough as species go.
No there’s no heaven
for this little fly
With fields of garbage
awaiting on high
No celestial bliss for
this little fellow
Just a watery grave of
pale yellow.
It crosses my mind that
at this junction
I should probably feel
some sense of compunction.
I mean, it’s not very
nice, no way to behave
Peeing disrespectfully
on someone’s grave.
But this fly’s not a
someone, is he? Just a dead fly
And surely not as grand
and deserving as I.
Granted—a fly’s
existence has a useful role
In our planet’s system
as a whole.
While I and my kind in
the name of progress
Pollute and destroy and
make a big mess
A fly’s not been known
to murder his kind
To hate and cruelty
he’s not inclined.
And a fly wouldn’t
enslave one of its own
To greed and
corruption, he’s not prone
He really does nothing
to which a fault you can pin
OK—so he pukes on food,
but that’s not a sin.
But a fly deserve
heaven? Who’d believe it?
No, that’s reserved for
the species who can conceive it
And who continue to
hold a dogged insistence
That they somehow
deserve a continued existence
Free from pain and
sadness, no old bones creaking
No spiders or swatters,
metaphorically speaking
No maladies producing
moaning and crying
No hunger or sorrow, no
anguish, no dying.
What great hope and
comfort in this grand ideal
Is it any wonder the
mass appeal?
But now—a fly needs no
solace, he doesn’t fear death
Has no selfish longing
for eternal breath.
He just does what he
does ‘cause that’s what he must
Then it’s ashes to
ashes and dust to dust
And someday my fate
will be the same
I’ll return to that
from which I came.
You see—the atoms which
constitute all creation
Give all things in
nature an unbiased relation
And when everything’s
reduced to the bottom line
A fly’s basic makeup is
the same as mine
So maybe someday will
our atoms unite
In a tree or the ocean
or a bird in flight
We might meet again
this side of forever
So, I say “Adios,
little fly guy,”
and I pull the flush
lever.
Mark Blickley grew up within walking distance of New York's Bronx Zoo. He is a proud member of the Dramatists Guild and PEN American Center. His latest book is the text-based art collaboration with fine arts photographer Amy Bassin, Dream Streams.
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