Fruit Flies
By Deborrah Corr
They drone around the now browned bananas
I forgot to eat when they were fresh and yellow.
Air-born things with wings too tiny
to be seen, black dots that can’t
be snatched from the air or smashed
against the window, out of which I can see
the Trump flag flying from a house
down the street. I stood on a corner
last week with different neighbors,
rubbing elbows as we held up signs,
corralling our fears into a swarm of resistance.
Not so many of us on the sidewalk that day.
Just a few fruit flies, persistent, annoying,
doing what it takes to point out decay.
Deborrah Corr is the author of the chapbook Naked Rib (Finishing Line Press). A former kindergarten teacher, she decided upon retirement to dedicate her time to the art and craft of poetry. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in several journals and anthologies, including The Penn Review, Chicago Quarterly Review, Booth, Verse Daily, The McNeese Review, Catamaran and many others. Deborrah lives in Seattle where she is inspired by gardening and morning walks with her husband. You can find her website at https://deborrahcorr.com/.
Photo credit: California Department of Fruit and Agriculture.
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