by J. Clifford Milligan
The jobsite port-a-potty was sour
with week-old urine
and grunting men’s
hungover shits —
a pressure cooker of foulness.
It was hot July and humid too
and I stood there sweating,
taking a leak.
And there at eye level,
on the edge of the vent
were two flies frozen as one,
one mounting, one being mounted
like bullfrogs or bulldogs
or humans too.
The thin golden thread laced
through all existence.
Outside I heard tools —
whirring and cutting,
banging on steel,
men barking and growling,
getting things done.
And I realized that this:
two horny houseflies
interlocked in the shitter,
was the most beautiful thing
I’d see all day.
© 2024 J. Clifford Milligan All rights reserved.
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