Flies

When I was younger,

my mother taught me 

not to touch flies.

Nor to let them sit 

upon the peach skin of my arm;

they brought along

bacteria and disease

and everything that was

a certain shade of sepia.

I quite enjoyed watching

the flies trapeze along my skin

in a ticklish sort of dance.

A few steps to the left

a curt bow

and a small rubbing of their hands

as if they were asking

for that one dance

in the small cubicle of the toilet.

I found no fault in these creatures;

they were ever so polite.

They asked for permission

every few hasty steps

before pausing to renew my approval 

for them to tango 

with my gaze.

It is now that I sit

with a book

submerged in my lap,

engulfed in a messy arrangement

of worn out fabric

and dandelion petals,

that I give up swatting away

the flies

and instead let them

have this one last dance

before watching them 

fly off in a 

whispered dalliance

with the summer wind.