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Dead Fly Beauty | Richard FeinStarted on a pristine men’s room wall.
I put the N.Y. Times Literary Supplement to good use.
Swatted two flies. Crushed black bugs on a white wall.
By next day the remains had become nipples,
for some unknown creator drew breasts around them.
I swatted a few more below these breasts.
The next day 1 beheld a headless female torso,
immodestly sporting her crushed flies.
Two more swats above.
And again the mysterious night Rembrandt did his secret work,
turning carcasses into the dark eyes of a most beautiful face.
A lady of the dead flies,
but not for long.
After hours the unseen creator scraped off the grisly beginning
and drew a flowing gown around the naked torso.
And his magic marker coronated her with a diadem.
He made long eyelashes and gave her a smile.
An angel on the urinal wall
watching over legions of men seeking relief.
I, the catalyst for this, could only stand in envy and awe.
Her morbid beginnings forgotten or never known.
The creator fashioned a Madonna,
a thing of beauty, a joy, but not forever.
The blasphemous janitor swept the icon away with a wet rag.
But there are still flies.
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