-Annie's rationalization-

I listened-in

from the hallway

as she told her guest

over coffee and cookies

at the kitchen table

that the flies

come in from the junkyard.

I assumed they made

their home

inside that snazzy powder-

blue Henry J

I had my eyes on

for a couple of days

sitting on four flat tires

its body near rust-free

behind the fence near the gate.

that’s the one I’d live in if I was a fly.

maybe the flies enter the kitchen

on holiday outings

in groups of three or four,

their kids zig-zagging the air

having fun playing tag.

the big ones, having earned

the "housefly" moniker

could be found sunning themselves

at the windowpane over the sink

or snacking at the base of the breadbox lid.

the lucky ones will return

to the junkyard's Henry J

at the opening of the screen door

when the guest departs

after the last close encounter

with Annie's mad-headed swatter.

nowadays, there are times when

writing of certain moments recalled

in living the life inside my earliest house

it's as if the troubadour is singing to my ear:

“not much is really sacred”.

 Quequechan