Life Cycle of a Pic Pac Fly

 
 
--EMPLOYEES ONLY—  
 
swirling  
there are two trash cans:  
one in the break room, and then one near the produce department;  
 
the hazed fluorescents buzz  
in the dusted recesses  
of the dark ceiling,  
 
two pineapple pizzas stacked  
brought in by someone  
they sit  
the flies encircle the air  
they never seem to be born or to die  
they exist in the same capacity as  
the doors to the bathrooms:  
sometimes they are illuminated  
sometimes not  
sometimes they catch a draft  
sometimes not  
but they are always around  
and the flies hang in the air  
then, drop down and busy themselves  
on a tasty looking square inch of break room table, or metal chair.  
then, they are off again  
buzzing silently  
 
I do not ever see dead flies.  
I do not see where they lay their eggs  
and I am not sure where they breed, or mate  
they are always fully grown  
and always propelled  
by a subtle hunger  
you can hear their stomachs growl  
in the way their legs  
brush upon their long thin mouths—proboscis, right?  
 
{KEEP DOOR LOCKED}  
 
into the sunshine  
it is hot out  
heat index warning  
92 degrees  
 
a trash can, put onto the ‘dairy cart’  
which is an orange dolly  
not at all a cart  
and never used for dairy  

I wheel the duo  
blue can, orange cart  
out to the dumpster  
and I open the lid  
and inside, all sorts of things  
rotting potatoes—99 cents a pound  
a broken printer from the thrift store next door  
tomatoes, empty bottles of diet coke  
busted beer cans  
and packaging to frozen meals that the employees have eaten  
 
and the flies  
awaken as I open the dumpster  
frenzied by the sunlight  
a few swirl up  
and rise above the green metal walls  
taking in the world  
for a minute only  
as I struggle with the heavy can  
discarding more of the varied same  
 
then I close the dumpster  
and go back into the store  
 
 
NOW HIRING! APPLY INSIDE. HELP WANTED.  
 
 
indeed, the flies in the dumpster  
have probably been born and raised  
in that dumpster  
and have never left the property  
and have never known the wonders of the garbage pits of the landfills,  
or the delicious scraps of my own trash can  
so many tasty torrid trash treats  
will go unappreciated  
by these tiny souls  
all identical  
they rub their proboscises  
in the same fashion that their ancestors from a year ago did  
all those generations ago  
born and raised  
in this store  
in this dumpster  
subsisting off of the refuse  
 
anyhow, a house is a home. No?