by Don Thackrey
In June, I hang flypaper from the ceiling,
And watch the flies swarm to it with their need,
Their hopes, their boredom, and perhaps some feeling
That this is where a fly gets pedigreed.
Reminds me of some cities I have seen,
Whose neon streets seem sticky yellow strips
Where buzzing folks in quest of things unclean
Cash in their honor, moral sense—and chips.
Judge not, the Bible says. I should be slow
To make comparisons, to criticize
Those city folks whose lives I cannot know.
I’ve got no call to put them down as flies.
I’ll go about my chores and hold my tongue,
Not judging things that breed in barnyard dung.