Scraps
Holly Day

​
The fly lands on the edge of my sandwich
stands on four legs, rubs its front two together
as if about to break into song
break out a set of tiny silverware
break into some used-car-salesman lecture
that’ll make me give it my whole sandwich
maybe go make it another whole sandwich
to take home to its family.

​I swat impatiently at the fly, send it off
without waiting to hear it sing, or speak,
or beg, because I have heard
that flies either shit or puke on food they want to eat
they do something disgusting to it, and I
don’t want to think about it. Instead
I rip the corner of the sandwich the fly was on
toss it to the dog sitting patiently in the corner
also watching me eat.