It’s a sin to kill a mockingbird.
            — Atticus Finch

First of all, Atticus,
a housefly is no mockingbird.

I’ll grant they both have wings
& a song, if you can call that

droning buzz a song (an original
at least, unlike the mockingbird’s

karaoke of its neighbors’ greatest
hits), but even you couldn’t

concentrate with that racket
in your ear—or fail to think

of what it likes to eat & where 
it lays its eggs—& before I know it

the swatter’s in my hand
& then comes the silence,

blissful at first but then somehow
not. There’s the corpse to deal with,

for one thing, or maybe it’s the way
a corpse is a corpse no matter

whose, or how even with those
compound eyes like disco balls

it rarely sees the swatter coming,
defenseless as a child skipping rope

beneath a falling piano, or how
near sunset it’s drawn to the light

streaming through the west-facing
window, where it’s a sitting duck

or would be if I weren’t drawn there
too, distracted by the very same sight,

& we both fall still & gaze
in wonder at the end of the day.