Tiled Bathroom Floor
There was a fly on my salty white,
tiled bathroom floor
the evening of my return.
I tread with light, crafted feet
in case of disrupting its sleep.
Later--
It had fallen onto its side;
its legs dead pricks of a hairbrush.
I looked on with pity
before emptying it into its watery grave.
As it went around--
down, down, down-flush--
No dignity in it;
why shouldn't a fly be granted dignity
on its dying day?
Tragic, short, gone. Goodbye.
I turned,
I had no need for lifeless flies.
Goodbye.