Yellow fly’s the time
There were long hours spent on the porch
Tin roof shading from the Florida sun
The silence interrupted by the wire swatter
From beneath in sand the ants would come
Carrying below the high porch the silent
ones who moments before sucked blood
The itching persisting into the evening
As the moths circled around the bare
yellow bulb swaying to the rocking
Mosquitoes waking for the evening shift
The fly swatter of little use to defend
bare flesh from the incessant assaults
til we’d have to retreat to the front room
the high tongue and groove ceiling above
with the long wire white bulb extinguished
to sleep as the cicadas in sand emerged.
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