A Poem by Nels Hanson
The police inspector in white trench coat
fires his revolver at the odd shadow
stumbling up the hill of oaks and broken
stones, looming large now as moonlight
shows a man’s body with bulbous head,
hands and one foot a fly’s sharp claws . . .
What could be worse? Perhaps the President
visits the lab, sits for a photo in the glass
case while the secret service agent leans
a second against the wall, by accident
throws the switch as a common bluebottle
buzzes into the reintegration chamber.
Rushed to the White House, home again
in the West Wing, the Chief Executive
runs down a maze of halls from the Oval
Office, each huge eye a thousand eyes
each searching for a mirror, to comb
the few hairs grown from oily bulbs.
Far away, searching the green pasture,
a fly with a tiny human face screams
as out of habit its body descends to eat.