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.