There must be people
who are fascinated
with fly ribbon,
who hand them as
ornaments or squeeze
the bottom portion into bottle tops
so they look like a bouquet of flowers.
The flies can’t resist
the red hot mangoes in the eye,
the slanted light of Buddha,
slow dancing with a
partner that wouldn’t let go.
On this hot summer day
I watch their light-fingered legs
twist in the bottleneck of futility,
unaware that they have landed
on the island of lost souls.
Resting in the easy chair
the minutes and hours have
become obedient children,
just out of reach a book
I’ve been wanting to read.