Grave of the Fruit Flies

Once, when vacuuming in a strange part of the living room

I noticed the zings of a few odd comets in the air

And pulling the large red couch aside

I realized I had displaced a headstone

For the grave of some hundred fruit flies

Who, knowing that it is better to die together

And in the shade of houseplants

Had fallen forever in black mounds

Shrunken raisins

Like dried fruits in biscuits we ate as kids

I paused momentarily on this display of sleeping solidarity

Then suctioned them into the next world