What is so mesmerizing
about a quarter inch of beer?
It’s more than I might want
but a binge for a fruit fly.
One-by-one they muscle up to the bar
take a sip,
list off the barstool
dead drunk
then just dead.
And yet—
body floating,
wings askew,
each one takes a little tipple
before the big sleep.
The saloon’s amber walls rise
slick and slippery.
None of the fruit flies
trust their wings.