Hour Seventeen

I am convinced
flies have genetic memory
to the swatter-
dashing through the air
landing upon
naked skin crawling
a constant hum of buzzing
afflicting my quiet.

I pick up the swatter
and the nerve-grinding melody ceases.
I scan the room and cajole them
out from hiding,
eyes narrowed in annoyance
and after a few moments of pause,
I set it down and go about my way.

Preoccupied with my current task,
I forget their existence
and venture further off into my own world
when it so happens to flirt about,
bouncing like a pinball
off surfaces and my being
in an angry squabble of
buzzing interfere to the depths of my thought-
an annoying static-
and disappears.

I bat them off and shrug them away
shooting daggers from my eyes
my features contorted by
my grievance.
I pick up the swatter
and they disperse-
the army of black flies
going AWOL in their defense.

I set it down slowly,
mindful of their presence
and threat to concentration.
One lands upon the table in front of me
zipping along zig-zagged lines
teasing me with it’s curious presence.
I hold tight the handle and slowly raise
holding it aloft like Anne Wilkes
as their number one fan
and blessed is the silence.