April, and fucking are the flies.
Now it rains. Now Poppa
into Momma Fly pops.
The sun breaks like a dish
from some trashy nimbus.
Poppa dismounts.
Momma off the turd buzzes—
in her guts a hundred maggot starts.
A cloud again trashes the sun.
A flycatcher spears for breakfast Poppa.
Pops into my head
maybe today myself get lucky.
Skip without a thought for cracks
down the sunny, wet sidewalk.
Willie Smith is: Human. Male. Old.