Murder and Mercy

It is cold December
And the big fat flies
Crawl and pace against the inside window pane
Seeking some sort of release and passage
To a destination
That you and I know as their certain doom.
 
They bother me
By some memory jogged of rot and wretch
And head the registered list of things
That I must distance myself from
These vectors of the world unclean
Messengers of dark fear and terror.
 
But it is their life,
Their way unchosen,
And who am I to judge
And unilaterally arbitrate?
And so I shoo them out the door
Fool flies soon frozen,
Or dispatch them
Quickly with a swat
Of murderous mercy.
 
I am a calculating brute
Of mood and moment
And so must also register myself
On that list of the things unclean.