In the kitchen, the air
conditioner drones heavily
but I only hear the buzz
over the table, the fly,
frantic and trapped
against the tan sheen
of sticky ribbon, spiraling
down from the ceiling
like a staircase.
Only it can’t walk anymore,
its legs forever adhered
to the chemically irresistible
fragrance in the room.
My disgust and helplessness
are not for the desperate
but dying fly, struggling
just above where I will eat
tonight.
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