John Grey

The Killer Who Never Was

was a golden time
of grabbing flies
out of the air
with my tiny hand,
squeezing them unto death,
then pulling off their wings,
tossing away the body,
but saving those appendages
in a jar.

Adulthood was a disappointment.
Annoying creatures buzzed all around –
too big for me to handle,
too complex for me to desecrate.

old age is also a golden time.
My bones are weak.
My reactions are slow.
But flies mob my rotting body.
Every swoop of hand
grasps at least one.

The wing jar is full
but it could have been
so much fuller.

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