too many flies in the apartment
swarming masses
red-bodied sugar-eaters
rising from perch to greet me in the morning
little wings and legs
tickling my face
as I pour my coffee
I hate them
the flies
they turn my home into an out-house, or some
filthy cellar rich with dripping ceiling and pools of sew
they make my lavish existence reek of squalor
turning my wealth to destitution
I lay in my bed as sun trickles in and track their path
across my blank white walls
they sit themselves on a picture of my mother
and make her seem sick
they cluster around the rim of my wine glass
and make me wish not to sip
how dare they
by what right
they deserve to live no more than a day
and I
deserve better than this
